Eulogy for Fleetwood Pier

fleetwood-pier

Fleetwood had its pier once. Not art deco, more chipboard vest.
The rebuild in the seventies had stripped it of its Sunday best.
Its rusting ribs and concrete bib became the poke for kids with beer
And dormant, shuttered, out of sync, it slumbered through its autumn years.
But on the night they went too far and burnt the crumbling structure down
It faced us with a final bow and lit the corners of the town.
With streaks of orange, cracks of black, demonic clouds of smoke unfurled,
Demented, vast cathedral domes, the ceiling of the Underworld.
The crowd in slippers gathered round, pyjamas drenched with hosepipe rain.
As water roared across the night, they laughed with nervous self-restrain.
At daybreak charcoaled stanchions rose like smouldering war graves from the sea,
Reporters in their anoraks rewriting local memory.

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