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.
