The End of the Pier

I’d brush down a charcoal grey suit
Fasten a skinny grey tie and I’d picture you fixing your hair up
Ironing neat sunray pleats in a circular skirt
I’d practice the steps in my hall
I’d try out my quickstep and side kicks round chairs by the kitchen room table
Until typically just as it started to click, along came the Twist
We’d meet at the end of the pier
Spin around the Edwardian ballroom and drink Vodka Collins from hipflasks
And stroll back to land with a Woodbine in hand
You’d laugh with the girls from the shop
We’d kiss on the decking and smile at the leather-clad teddy boy try-hards
Bet they wished they could dance the way that we danced round that old wooden
hall, and who would have thought
That I’d be the one who sits at the end of the pier all alone watching the tide
That I’d be the one who stands at the faded pavilion doors
Watching the space where we’d dance to the bands on a Saturday night
The gatehouse got burned to the ground
The cafe became an arcade and our ballroom became a casino
The old helter-skelter unused and unloved
I can picture your dress spinning round
Sometimes I can still see our love in the candyfloss-sharing young couples that
pass
But I bet they can’t dance the way that we danced round that old wooden hall,
and who would have thought
That I’d be the one who sits on the end of the pier all alone watching the tide
That I’d be the one practising side kicks and lifts round the hall in the same
charcoal suit
Fire brigade staff, the next time it’s burning and everyone’s safe,
please just stand aside
Or I’ll be the one who still stands at the faded pavilion doors
Watching the space where we’d dance to the bands on a Saturday night