The Folly

by Robin Munro

Go past the private gate to playing sands
and see a bothy of our local whinstone,
made up like a castle for Edwardian eyes,
stormed and tidalised
since they established it above their foreshore.

Here they changed.
Ladies to one side.
Gentlemen to the other.
Redressed for the sea.

Down from the Big House on days deemed halcyon
to a landing stage deemed quaint
while we with naturally bare feet
kept in the background
their occasional tea service.

At least that’s how I see the heyday of a sold Estate
where rhododendron turns in on itself and stifles everything.
Our cottage flowers migrate as fragrant weeds
while each spring tide erodes the Folly.