The coloured pedalos,
And the puppet show,
Are no longer in sight,
For the visitors’ delight;
The lido has closed;
Beach-huts got bulldozed.
All the fun of the fair
Is now no longer there;
There was a cosy café -
Now a takeaway;
And once there stood,
A pier built of wood,
Where people would stroll,
After paying a toll;
Fond memories fade
Of the penny arcade,
Where now there are flats –
There’s no turning back;
No attractions are left,
And the Prom is bereft;
There are benches for bums,
And seagulls crave crumbs.
But the sand and the sea
Will always be free –
They’ll both soldier on,
And will never be gone:
For some, they’re enough,
But these times are tough;
People will go other places,
With their designer suitcases.
Is this what they call progress,
Or is it all just an awful mess?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem