Hers was a stuttering demotic voice
All it’s aitches dropped like a stich
For effect, and the tautening of
Conversational canvas, bringing
The audience in like lobster pots
Full of scuttling claws,
His was a declamatory style
Of the old kind, pier end stuff
Bellowing fondly through
Wind rouged cheeks
Netting his catch with a twirl
Familiar from TV in the days
Before phone-ins
And with routines dispatched
Half laughers and kids off
To hunch over flip-penny
And shoot-em up, to take in
The sweet fat of a donut
Or to sit on the sea wall
Chucking chips at guls
He turns his wiped eyes to hers
Her hand, clairvoyant or just
Well-rehearsed finds his and tightens
With all the promise of a life
In lights, which may yet appear
Like a rescue mission or plans for
Lottery funded re-generation
They are relics, waiting to be found
And young enough to have no
Property or place, outside the ricking pier
Nothing to stop them coming here
For the faltering applause
And the indifferent sea whose waves
Could hardly choose these shores.
