On the Pier (Poetry)

Each gap between the planks a slit of
green-grey movement makes the structure
seem uneasy — the thud of waves
against poles driven deep into
the sea’s restless pebbled bed shakes
the pier — its flaking ironwork old
but still safe enough for funfairs —
for traditional amusements — for the fishermen
and strollers down its seagull-haunted mile.

It is a gusty cool and very English day —
flags flapping wildly on the gaudy helter-skelter roof
and the screech of birds loud above the breeze
that carries hurdy-gurdy melodies and flings
snatches of passing conversations — a cacophony
rising and falling with the ocean swell.

Thin cloud is torn to shreds across the sky
so rain is scattered — the umbrellas fight
a stronger force and so retreat at speed —
seek cover in cafés —
while tougher tourists battle to enjoy the view —
one boat that’s heading out bobs brave
in all that empty brine-soaked stretch between
the end of the pier and the wavy-lined horizon.

Some thoughts yearn to travel with it — others turn
to fish and chips and playing slot machines —
and those less hazardous adventures pursued
while still in sight of land.