By the look of Mum's cloche hat,
Dad's oiled hair, pack of Craven A,
sometime between the Great and Second.
There too, Gran perched on a groyne,
dressed as if for a funeral, spit
and handkerchief primed to wipe
the smile from the ice-creamed day.
If you have any comments on this poem, Stephen Bone would be
pleased to hear from you.