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It had stretched out like a piece of home-grown
England, proud as any natural promontory;
and in these coastal regions where the cliffs collapse
at a moment's notice, and seaside villas
hang like stacked coins in a pier gambling machine
on the edge, it had not succumbed to the odds,
the domed structure affecting a respect from the sea,
the waves throwing powerless glances, as an audience
the colourful stage; each night drew down a curtain
of tranquillity; each dawn, its equal in the rising sun.
They had shut it down years ago, the red
notices almost bleached: 'Dangerous Structure'.
Derelict, to walkers on the beach it posed
an anomaly: who peered at its corrupted ironwork,
and wondered, 'How does it stand?' that coloured
opinion with the conviction they had plans for it,
as yet unrealised; but it could wait, it was part
of Brighton, and that carried on forever:
well, last week the pier collapsed. |
