At The End Of The
Pier
The gaps between the weathered planks below our feet
Left tantalising glimpses of the drop
Down to the restless grey boiling sea beneath
The waves slapping hard against the piles
Barnacled and seaweed-strewn
A watery world, above which we were held aloft
On the bracing breezy boardwalk
Heads down into the wind
Eyes hooded against the slanting light
Along the corroded iron-girdered structure
A cheeky finger jutting out from land
Edged around by rusting railings
Their layers of leaded paint
Flaking in the sea-salt onslaught
Of many stormy seas
And elemental winters
The pier’s attractions sheltered in the middle
Clustered tight together in serried rows
Harbouring sweet and sickly smells
Of rock and ice-cream and candy-floss
What the butler-never-saw machines
And pulsating penny arcades
That held the promise of a prize
The seafood stalls set out their wares
Of prawns and cockles
Whelks and pin-hunted winkles
And shops that touted windmills
Flags and buckets and spades
Kiss-Me-Slowly cowboy hats
And revolving wire stands
Of saucy seaside postcards
Picturing pot-bellied punters
That had lost their little Willie
Then beyond the chevrons of deckchairs
The booths and bandstand of a bygone era
Faded relics of Edwardian grandeur
Towards the final destination
And an end of walking
The prow of this promenade
With but a single telescope
That cost a silver sixpence
To let the gormless gaze out into the bay
Before bowing to the inevitable
And setting out upon the journey back
That could never be as thrilling
As that first stroll out into the sea
And towards a setting sun
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