Silently intense

Silently intense

Empty stadia vibrate

With loneliness.

Abandoned hotels weep

For lack of sleep

And the smell of bacon

Hangs in the air

Enticing the souls

Of the ghosts

Who haunt the

Darkened corridors.

All is quiet

In paradise

For lack of seasoning.

Even the birds

Have lost their song.

Crows look on in sorrowful

remorse

As seagulls clean

The plates

Of leftovers

From high tide,

When late night

Revellers slept

Themselves sober

Among the seaweed

And curry sauce.

Sea salt hangs in the air

Coating the skin

And eating away

The wooden frames

Of windows,

The slash of a sash

Sagging beneath the weight

Of too much reflection

And too little

Maintenance.

All good wood rots with age

And lack of foresight,

Where ever this pavilion is

The end of the pier

Saw its last laugh

Half a century ago,

When a pensioners

Slow-coach party

Was a venerable no-show.

The bed and breakfast grew cold

And the sea-side resort closed

It’s quaintly enduring

Attraction

To the summer.