Stephen Payne

Pier

Beyond the waterfront parade
of small concerns, it makes its stand.
The freshly painted balustrade
puts on a brave display,
but still the suck and swell is fanned
around the stanchions, licking them away.

The understructure has a crust:
the flock effect of seagull shit,
a blanket rash of molluscs, rust
on rivet-heads and screws.
Yet even here they pretty it
with fluted columns, flighty curlicues.

Call it vain, even risible,
to dig in, for appearance sake,
against the irresistible;
it’s what I’ve come here for.
I’ll walk the pier’s full length and take
the sea air, closer to my father’s shore.