The café’s been taken over –
prices doubled, meals globalised,
locals expelled, tourists fleeced,
threshold not crossed.
the one where you worked,
is now a surf shop –
two rooms knocked into one –
the wall I had my back against
gone. I wipe my fingers
through racks of wordy tee shirts,
try to picture my table,
see the way you walked to and fro.
The mad healer’s sold his farm,
moved to town, put up a poster,
the laying-on of hands –
well, that’s what he calls it.
The lanes are tattooed with skid-marks –
PSVs and 4x4s, at double speed,
send me scuttling into hedgerows.
In fields, the herds of cattle
are now herds of horses –
not for the squeamish.
The cliff-paths are cluttered
with townies and doggies
and jobbies, no back-packers,
no fellowship, no etiquette, just barging,
flip-flops on footpaths.
At the end of a sad day
I buy drinks in the re-branded pub –
something’s missing –
something more than the extra couple pounds
I expected to find in my change.