END OF THE PIER
a sepia photograph of the much missed Plymouth Pier, I gave thought to
the passing of a seaside tradition...
the days of those charabanc outings
When we sang all the way down to the sea;
We had buckets and spades and hampers and towels
And the sixpence to spend Gran had given to me.
I loved the sandcastles where goblins and trolls lived
And all of the sounds from the shell to my ear;
I loved the beach cricket where I scored a century -
But better than best was the old seaside pier.
penny arcades or sand in the shell fish;
Or striped sticks of rock and jugs of warm beer
No more standing in line waiting for concerts
In the battered old hall at the end of the pier.