Pier Review

~

brittle slate storm clouds

batter chaotic sparring gulls

I crouch under a faded awning

of pink and yellow cornetto

fearing shit and showers,

ageing planks and Meccano

struts grumble and wheeze

as I shuffle precariously

between the fortune-tellers

the bandits and the tourist tat

I focus through the chained-up

Binoculars on Lord and Lady

Beach Hut who eat Waitrose

sandwiches off plastic plates

and drink Tesco teabags

from twee china cups,

Stan and Pam, Bill and Doris

have each bequeathed damp

benches from beyond the grave

lovingly etched to profess their

love of this dull monochrome

acquired view,

as my plastic mac bubbles

I become Bibendum,

chin on chest I bow to

repel the sneaky fret, now

trickling down my neck

dour anglers perform a

passive end of the pier show

a welly-to-welly hornpipe

which they conclude by

spitting phlegm to hit the

incessant squealing gulls,

in my blurry mind’s eye

I hear a silver band and

the chirp of a Wurlitzer,

is it a circus or freakshow

and worse still, 

am I starring in it?

*

© Graham R Sherwood 04/24