The Poetry Society

The sweep of the wind,

of the waves, of the distance,

where towering greyness towers over the Tower;

where yellow-green trains sweep

from Starrgate to Fleetwood,

past high rides and side shows on the wild Golden Mile.

A small child is clutching her father's strong hand,

her tiny feet sore from the sea-rippled sand

as he leads her to dance

to the Tower Ballroom's organ,

to the orchestra's waltz in the old Winter Gardens;

while the discordant music of laughter and gulls

sweeps out to the sunset on the ebbing-tide's storm

in this blur of red and blue light we call home.