The empty streets, the cold chill wind.
The cash on which all hopes were pinned,
has vanished now, the tourists thinned.
The season’s end, the cold chill wind.

The seafront speaks of bygone days.
The shuttered cafe’s vacant gaze,
the tourist’s trails deserted maze,
their mourning speaks of bygone days.

Where tourists walked, the gulls now stand,
a raucous carpet on the strand,
drenched with rain, where once they tanned.
Where sun beds stood, the gulls now stand.

When April comes, the town will rise,
the sun returning to the skies
the long awaited Spring reprise.
When tourists come, the town will rise.

Until that time it holds its breath,
a town as cold and still as death.