Pontins At Hemsby Poem by Angela Wybrow

Here I stand, not far from the sea:
No longer a place where folk want to be.
I remember the day they padlocked my gate
On that fateful day in two-thousand-and-eight.

For many a year, I could proudly boast
To be the best holiday camp on the East coast,
But, for my last thirty years, there was many a sign
That my popularity was now on the decline.

As international travel started to soar,
I found myself being increasingly ignored;
Fewer holidaymakers wanted to come
To spend their days with me in the sun.

People, they travelled across many miles
To share with me their laughter and smiles;
I did my very best to cater for all,
And, for many a year, folk had a ball.

The people, they came to be entertained,
Whether it was sunny or pouring with rain;
There was swimming, go-karts, and various clubs,
Talents shows, a fun fair, and a nice, cosy pub.

But now I'm lying here all battered and bruised;
My facilities have been abandoned: they're empty; disused.
As time goes by, I feel I'm being forgotten;
My chalet floorboards are now pretty rotten.

Through my gates, the crowds no longer flock,
But I still get the odd visitor: a bird or a fox;
To the local wildlife, I still happily play host,
But, of my former self, I am now merely a ghost.