Today Next Year

A writing prompt asked: What was there about today that you will enjoy remembering in a year's time?

Not the woman

complaining

that the council want her

to either chain up her dogs

or build a secure fence.

 

Not the man

complaining

that the bench seats and tables

outside the chippie shop

aren't clean enough.

 

Not the woman

complaining

the concrete path

to the jetty

is in the wrong place.

On this bright

yellow and blue

mid-winter's day

I smile at small boys

dropping rocks

into the sea

with a satisfying splash.

I smile at the curve

 of the blue footbridge

leading the women

pushing strollers

following toddlers

over the water

to the playground.

 

I notice the leaves

of opportunist

self-seeded plants

sprouting from the top

of the broken palm tree:

like a comical toupee

on a balding man.

 

There's a shiny

 black and chrome

better than new

nineteen forties car

parked outside the cafe,

a chance to chat

to one, no longer a stranger.

The dog runs into waves

the boy follows

foaming water fills his boots

and, nearly mine.

Gulls run along the sand.

There is laughter and barking,

shells and driftwood.

If this day next year

is as cold and wet and dark

as one expects in July,

these will be the memories

I will take out to enjoy,

to taste, to smell,

to relive in front of the fire.