Wrecked Echoes of the West Pier

The wind slammed the rusted rails, whole, and then let go—
waves licked the weathered planks as if rehearsing song.
Ghosts of seats hang like drapes, a half‑baked shorefest,
and every dented beam remembers a forgotten laugh.

Mosaic of spray glass and broken brass,
the pier sighs under the grey sky, a tired sigh.
A lone gull circles, flicks a memory into foam,
while tourists pause, coaxing stories from the tide.

Brighton’s lungs beat in salt and sea‑foam,
and the ruined pier whispers: “Do not let nostalgia drown.”