Land on British Sand

a poem by tobias kerins, UK

Landing fish from the sea, in the port of Grimsby
Was a fisherman's tale, for many
An industry old, where the fish were sold
But now there are hardly any

The valleys of Wales, with winds and gales
For folk, the beating heart
Where steel it shone, but now it has gone
And for them they have to restart

In the shadow they cower, of the Blackpool Tower
By arcades, and sea-food stalls
How time does fly, in days gone by
As tourism slowly falls

The Caithness coast, golden sands does boast
The Old Man of Hoy, is divine
But when summer does finish, the crowds diminish
And business, does slowly decline

Cumbria's stakes, is the land of lakes
From Coniston Water, to Windermere
But when the water is cold, and business does fold
The area drowns in fear

From Liverpool's docks, to the Tyneside rocks
From Cornwall's beaches, to Kent's far reaches
From the Scottish glens, to the Norfolk fens
From the Pembroke coast, to a Tayside toast

Seaside communities, are struggling at best
Every day to them, a final test
Because people don't visit, numbers are down
Where once all flocked, to a seaside town

Business has fallen, industries out
Once thriving places, left with no clout
Depression sets in, worries they spread
The future indeed, many do dread

There is one way, to combat this ill
This my friends, is show goodwill
Rather than fly to a place, in a far away land
Have a holiday at home, on British sand

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