Burnt out yet standing
still, my lattice dome
of rusting girders
becomes mind island.
Pillars and spars and
ties and synapses
are wave-riding,
wind-whipped vortex: the left
skeleton of bare memory,
alive
only with murmuration of
starlings.
Seventeen chains from
shore
to pavilion's end:
a span first swept by
hems
full length, with
parasols
and gents in Sunday best.
Columns, screwed to
seabed,
cast iron guarantee
of briny promenade.
The rim of seats leaning
backward offers pause to
contemplate; on all sides
scrollwork and curlicue
reflect our frippery.
As years roll by,
trippers
flock and the features
grow.
Paddle steamers share
their
landing stage with
anglers,
pierrots frolic, daring
divers plunge, and
bandstand
transforms to concert
hall.
Then decking widens
making room for dodgems,
ghost train, helter-skelter.
While toddlers peer
through gaps
in planks at sea below,
scallywags cadge pennies
to play the slot machines.
A pulse of their footfall
runs up and down the
stale
decades of disrepair.
By fire, by storm the
motherboard
gets disconnected,
remaining
cordless, rooted just
beyond reach.
Had I still limb enough
to swim
the distance to where you
shelter
under arches, I would
meet you
on the shingle
breathless, unable
to explain quite the
attraction.
vii.2011
