The Victorian Pier

Sauntering on the planks,
boats out at sea,
umbrella in my hand,
the grey hanging high.

An old pebble beach,
strolling along the esplanade,
admiring the Italian gardens,
Victorian splendour in autumn.

Holes in my shoes,
the smell of rust,
the smell of salt,
waves dance below us.

Fishermen in the drizzle,
the Pavilion’s history echoes,
empty benches seat ghosts,
the pier their host.