Morcambe Bay Bandstand Poem by Not Long Left

Listen as the wind waits
for its breath to come back.
You can hear the sound of
shoes tapping upon the floor
as the band fill the salty air
with its annual rythmic routine.
The nervous laughter of the
just become lovers as they
clumsily tred on fresh leathered
holiday shoes.
Come closer enough to the
old cafe and you can smell
the vinegared fish on the
steps that they sat on,
soaking up the lazy rays
looking out at the sea-
as one does before life
hauls them back into routine.
Blue painted walls crumble
a little more each day
another little reminder lost
to the hunger of decay.
Nothing moves here anymore
apart from the occasional
sweet wrapper as it swirls
and swoops before heading out
the neverending sands.
The deck chairs that once rescued
many a tired old leg now rest
themselves, feld up and forgotten.
I stand on the old open dance floor
and strain to hear the beats of the
past. The traffic steals my solitude,
my search is severed by the cutting
sounds of cheap bitter pop music.
Only postcards prove the value
of the place, and they come at a price.
Seems history costs a little more each
day. above me the words 'Jug of tea
30 pence' leave me feeling thirsty
for more. Yet little lungs are calling
and all thoughts of then become now.