Single Photo: Beach Huts

Along the quiet shore they stand,
Paint peeling soft as drifting sand,
In early spring’s uncertain light,
Half-waking from the winter’s night.

The sea still hums a distant tune,
Beneath a pale, reluctant sun,
And shutters closed like drowsy eyes
Hold echoes of last summer’s skies.

No laughter spills across the tide,
No footsteps trace the turning glide,
Yet in the salt and warming air
A hush of promise lingers there.

They wait—these huts in weathered rows—
For longer days and softer glows,
For life to bloom, for voices bright,
To fill their frames with warmth and light.