London by the Sea

From the top of Preston St. one is exposed 

to the charred corpse of the West Pier 

like a remnant of Pompeii 

its emaciated arms creak and groan

forth to an embrace with the city

a mother bending to cradle her child’s lost future

whilst the late-noon sun kisses the sea 

and refracts into your eyes visions 

of the past, solar fire rushing thickly on

in waves against a civilisation which will 

one day, like its predecessor, remain

in only crude grey shells.

The common mistake upon turning 

onto Preston St. is submitting to the urge

of turning one’s back on the water

letting its sorrow and scorn deafen 

the people’s dirge with shame, drown out 

a nation dressed in black.

But resist, stand just so, and let light 

first blind then engulf your mind - see!

as I did when history revealed itself to me