Picnic

By Charlie Garratt

Away in the sea-hazed distance a caravan door swings open. A dot stumbles out, growing larger step by step as it sways across the sand. We try to look away, pretending he isn’t going to join us, until he stands there, trouser-bottoms tied with two different colours of string. The feathers in his tweed jacket pocket are from some manner of seabird and I know we are in trouble. Minutes later, I offer him a sausage roll, which he refuses, shaking his head, mumbling and stalking off to become a dot once more. Disappeared though never forgotten.

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