Jerry Pike - Piering Back

A month from now, slow roads will heave,
under bulging holiday tyres,
fattened on smokey city air,
scrabbling with this decades designer sat nav,
telling you, how to turn right.
There's a pier car park,
where wilderness sleeps, on stilts,
deep in a salt-dog shore line.

Superman just fails to score,
in tin pan alley knock-em-down.
54321, sing the Manfreds, jammed freshly
between the deck board slime.
One crying child,
and a gang of pensioners
in Bogart coats, waltz summer off its stage.
Empty table tops, rain-levelled,
open their faces to the thick charcoal sky.

A valiant of England choirs,
multi-brand their accents, put on, put off,
into every starving colour
in the starving queue, for miraculous cod.
Deck chairs fold up money,
money folds up you.
Everyone in their wise selves,
drinking dry the beers of the land.
As whipping winds,
surf Butlins graveyard,
its tombstone plastic pool chairs,
towel less, even for Germans.

Jerry Pike

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