DISAPPEARING ACT



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

South 54, October 2016

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