Sunday In Blackpool

The town wakes slow beneath a pewter sky,

Shops unlatch shutters, steam curls from cups,

Dogs tug their leads with morning joy,

Their tails like flags in the hush of daybreak.

The pavement hums with quiet bustle,

Newsagents open, cafés fill,

A child laughs near the bakery window,

And someone whistles down the lane.

Past the arcades and painted signs,

The promenade calls with salt and wind.

The Irish Sea, eternal and unbothered,

Rolls in silver, rolls in song.

Seagulls wheel above the tide,

Their cries stitched into the morning air.

Couples walk with hands tucked close,

And old men nod from benches worn.

The scent of brine, the slap of waves,

The rhythm of boots on stone and sand—

All of it sacred, all of it simple,

As if the town itself were praying.