At The End Of The Pier
The gaps between the weathered planks underfoot
Left tantalising glimpses of the drop
Down to the restless sea boiling 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 jaunty finger jutting out from land
Edged around by rusting railings
Their corroded 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 sugared rock, 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 cockles and crab-sticks
Pinky prawns 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 chevroned deckchairs
The booths and bandstand of a bygone era
Faded relics of Edwardian grandeur
Out towards the final destination
And an end of walking
The promenade’s pointing prow
With but a single heavy 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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