Wind whitecapping the inlet-
rain like a whipping string-
Sea-Bus bucking and dipping-
behind us -the Alcazar, dead as a doornail.
Landmark of brick and lumber
soon to be sundered and tumbled
in a rattle of empty rooms
all of the ghosts going down in a heap.
The bar where we tippled and quipped
safe in our roles and phases
in a circus of empty chairs
the clowns are gone with a vanishing giggle.
The jokers we fancied we were
on countless immoderate nights
have followed their antic thirsts
away from this cold and cancelled arena.
Plane shaking down the blow-
raingrey city receding-
yesterday closing its books-
evening Sea-Bus bouncing me home.
Peter Trower, 1984