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Wednesday, January 09, 2008

The End Of The Pier

Salt cracked decking is aged silver,
loose change drawn to the penny arcade,
only the policeman no longer laughs
out loud at what the butler saw.

Wind drives endless spiteful seas
that suck and gnaw at the arthritic
old man bones of corroded girders,
joints swollen under a crusting of barnacle.

An Empire believed you would stand
forever, providing respite from factory
and farm. Britannia ruling the waves
all for a nominal entrance fee.

Tearstains of rust run like mascara
after a broken romance, they soil the once
white fascias of this fractured finger
that points from a troubled shore.

I turn towards you; notice you’re reading
a faded poster announcing that by popular
demand ‘The Good Old Days’
are returning, matinee half price.

You believe it less than I do. The café
where tea is served tan and thick beckons.
we walk absently apart, your mascara
begins to run; it must be the wind.