Skant Regard: March 2011

A beaut of a poem just arrived in my inbox courtesy of our good friend Todd. It talks about a day about three years ago when Todd, Will and myself roadtripped to Thorpeness and camped out by the sea for want of something better to do with a sunny day.

Summer Drags Its Feet by Todd Murphy

We went to Old Joe’s Range.
Nicked a load of golf balls.
Drove down to the coast
and hit them to the sea.

It was dark as hell
and you couldn’t see them.
The waves were heavy
and you couldn’t hear the drop.

Good fifty golf balls,
just twatted into nothingness.
Looked around at stones and stars
but failed to find a reason.