Oh! How I wish I had been as tall as Gent, whom over the river went in his tread. I'll tell you why.
I walked small, under the old West Pier Filming the beauty I found there.
The old-time music hall, the bit that collapsed into the sea.
I had taken off shoes and socks, rolled up trousers to the knees, not a sight to please.
The warm water beckoned me in, the tide was low.
Boy oh boy, joy oh joy, what a beautiful show.
I was entrenched in beauty, drenched from toe to waist, Seeing the barnacled girder work with jetsam and flotsam graced.
Draped with coloured ropes, fishing net containing many shells hanging like a basket, Seaweed hanging like washing on a line to dry.
That hidden port, warmed cockled heart of me, For it became a sea-cret garden for my viewcam and me.
Come spring in 2007, when tide is really low, I'll go back where tranquil waters flow, Oh, oh, heaven; to my rusted, encrusted friend.
My love for the grand old Pier that used to be, will never go.
Peter Turner, The Drive, Hove
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