The old Grand Pier at Weston is no more
That peerless western town is now pierless
The sands appear very much as before
But no more crested by white towers; a mess
Of blackened wood floats in the foam. Careless
Kids hunt for souvenirs, boats roam around
The wreck, surveyors strain necks to assess
The cost, now Weston’s lost its favourite ground
Old wooden walk, where sea breezes surround
Where fat old ladies, fat young mothers pour
More red sauce on their chips to match their chest
And shoulders; men show torsoes to the town
White into red, like people, the pier tore
Its skin to ashes in fiery flashes
Mon 28 July 2008
No comments:
Post a Comment