Birnbeck.

Iron struts once green and strong,
a turnstile that used to click-clack constantly,
and the wooden boards pointing towards the island
are all succumbing to the sea.
The organ that played into the night for dances,
bits of twirled iron railings protecting sea gazers,
the flags and banners and posters
are all stored in the leaky ticket booth.

At low tide I crossed the beach,
avoided the fallen pieces of pier,
scrambled beyond the warning signs
and fell into the past.
Tattered curtains hung from the main room,
flapping in broken windows.
Painted letters proclaiming ICE CREAM were peeling,
and the stairs up to the balcony
showed chips of their old colour.
My camera clicked and clicked and clicked,
looking for a lasting image.

I walked back across the beach
and wondered how long it would be
until my photographs
were all that was left
of fading Birnbeck Pier.