At Morcambe Bay Bandstand
Dried islands of paint crumble under my feet
blue walls shed decades, peeling off the past.
Fragments of weather beaten wall are scattered
upon the deserted dance floor. The only sound
is the flapping of the frayed flags. And in that
silence as the wind waits to re- catch its breath
can be heard the distant sounds of a band playing.
The laughter of nervous just become lovers as
they step on each others fresh leathered holiday
shoes. Walk towards the old caved in cafe and
you can smell the vinegary fumes that seep from
the sun soaked steps they once sat on-
watching the sea massaging the shore; listening
to the sucking of the shoal. Under one once white
wall in a damp shadowed corner lay blue and white
strippped deck chairs- folded up and forgotten.
Some are still stained from spilt tea and melted
drops of ice cream. Soon my search for the past
is severed by the cutting sounds of angry shouts
booming from blacked out car windows.
Defeated I buy an air brushed vision of the once
was, happy faces frozen in black and white, faces
that resonate everything that is no more.
It seems history costs a little more each time I return.
04.06.2006 (The Manchester journeys)