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.

The Dog Made Of Newspaper

Will we forever be haunted
by the dog made of newspaper?
Rustling and howling at our door,
keeping us awake all night!
He chases after butterfly clips,
he barks at cotton wool cloud
and follows us everywhere we go.
If he get in, he makes a mess,
ink and letters all over the furniture,
paper cuts all over the curtains.
We try to ignore him as best we can,
neighbours think we’re barking mad,
but they can’t see yesterday’s news.