A storm to balance the scales

With the little one on my shoulders
and the other under my arm,
I followed St Michael to his mount
My bare white ankles and hairy toes
had indents where the socks had been,
trousers rolled up above the knee
like the old photographs of dad,
a bow legged Jimmy Dean,
and mum, a spoon playing Norma Jean,
held at the corners with sticky tabs,
Blackpool beach before they had.

Me and the kids meandered the monastics
but the monks didn't speak or appear,
I'm sure I heard one count to ten
when asked of Robin and his merry men,
there's a downside to a Disney DVD
the upside is a cuddle on a Sunday settee.

Orange juice and chicken crisps,
cream tea for two, a moment on the lips,
then flip-flop back down
on cobbles like clowns,
waiting in line for a boat back to shore,
bored captives in the taxi queue,
we watched the weather in a storm-bringers spell,
a battle raged between us and hell,
St Michael astride the Cornish rain,
the boats bumped ashore again and again,
we looked like we had swam.

But I still believe that on that day
the rain restored the balance
for as we stood in see-through clothes
the water washed away my phone
no more work or message tones.
We played in the streets of our archangel's home,
Marazion, his oldest throne.