A day trip to St Anne's (the weather forecast being get as far west as possible for sunshine) on the 1st of September, discovered a seemly seaside with the promised golden sands stretching out so far back at low tide that even after a determined effort, the sea's edge remained at such a tantalising distance I got no further than the old pier jutting out in the middle. There was a synchronised kite flying display being practised on the beach. Flying things is clearly the occupation of choice in a windy spot, as everybody was doing it, from a tiny dracula bat child's kite to the vast penguin blimp moored down and billowing happily about, and every store sold different kite designs. There's a little Victorian pier, a marina where you can pedalo and plenty of cake and icecream opportunities. Next to that is a memorial garden to the comedian Les Dawson, who hailed from there, complete with a flowery piano, where they've had to put a notice (presumably following public complaint) that it's not a playable one. On the way back, stopping at Lytham and the windmill, there is lovely long promenade to walk along before a huge saltmarsh which must be some eco specialist habitat, although I didn't see so much as a seagull on it at the time. It was eerily beautiful, with Bolton's Winter Hill in the distance behind. There are also two anchors which got caught in fishing nets at Fleetwood and have been restored and placed there, together with their likely historical provenance on a plaque.
Two teddies are now
Both in my keeping,
Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.
When new, Bruin was purple, larger,
With a deep growl.
My brother's.
Teddy was smaller, fawn,
Mine.
He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall
And a sink bath.
I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.
I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple
And my own ted must never know of that.
I was the oldest but the girl.
Perhaps that played into who got which bear.
Bruin is no longer purple,
Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,
At home and in his flat.
For a few years now, both have looked down from
The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.
They leaned together, slightly forward,
As if wanting to come down.
I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.
Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small
bald patches.
It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.
I felt I had let them down, the two teds,
Neglected while cherished still.
I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet
Of the single bed below,
Where they seem more contented, two old men together.
Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.