SKYARTUK

West Pier

The burnt-out shell of the pier out west
sails through the sea mist like the Marie Celeste;
this ship cut adrift amidst the passing shoals of ghostly fish.

Stalking the shoreline, its stilts in the quicklime,
the echoes of the fire silenced in this milky mire.
Black and brooding, wrack and ruin,
a hulk of skulking, skeletal gauntness.

Haunted by the memories, the gaieties of yesteryear,
taunted by the frailties all man-made creations must endure.
Peer beyond the smoky glass and hear her roaring glorious past.

Voyant

She's peeing bricks into her plastic knicks;
wheelchair stops on the Brighton rocks,
desperately looking for golden sand,
melted Magnum in her hand.
Draining dregs of a paper cup
nothing to do our time is up.
Day spent seeking Madame Paradima
but nobody's seen her.
Lights are off on the pier tonight
future's darker than a piece of shite.

Midwinter solace

On a midwinter mid-afternoon
the sunlight gilds the horizon,
the surface of the lagoon,
the stucco facade
of the Regency esplanade,
the shoulders of the angel,
who turns her face away
from the freezing sea breeze
and the encroaching gloom.
The nights have drawn in
but the lights on the pier begin
to brighten our day.

Brighton Belle

Pushing fifty up the hill
against its will
she's playing out her autumn
in a surgical stocking.
Revisiting the poncho look
over a large print book.
Wind-whipped shelter
is her helter-skelter.
Sharp as a butter knife
she panadols her way through life.