At The End Of The Pier

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 in the slanting light

Along the corroded iron-girdered structure

A cheeky finger jutting out to sea

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

Held tight together in clustered 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 on beyond the rows 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

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013