Cleethorpes

This dark underbelly of the pier is shielded by oil-slicked boulders
And the threat of youths with their beer cans and fires.
An ebony crab scuttles into a lichen-smothered bottle,
A puffer-fish with no puff, the abandoned dog-toy,
My hide-away is the junk shop of the beach.
Weary jingles from the rusting Ferris wheel,
The preaching voice of the traders’ spiel singing “roll up, roll up”.
My Pontefract cakes don’t quite disguise
The acrid nip of salt burning my eyes and glazing my throat.
Tramps’ piss mingles with the rotten scent of wet wood
And the forgotten jetty stretches beyond me, planks border
Sitting row upon row, in decaying rank order.
The algae, slick like squid-ink, streaks my fingers with potent slime
Once children hunted for buried treasure, armed with spears
Now housing a tyre, a condom, and the stench of beer.
The salt-and-pepper sand challenges the barefaced white of
Polystyrene chips, battered fish, and ocean vinegar.
Sun-drenched pebbles bathe outside amongst seaweed fingers,
And the sea foam lingers, leaving no trace of scum.