Poem: Ill Rhyl
The North Wales coast brochure
boasted: ‘Rhyl, the jewel
in our crown!’
Now the hinges rust in this ghost town.
Urban regeneration, seagull infestation,
roadworks, traffic jams and methadone programs;
front page news.
No chain stores
bar Maccy's and Woolies (RIP).
Charity and pound shops line our high street.
Morrison’s bags roll by like tumbleweed.
this Liverpool overspill
accents and lexicons clash
big fish, small ponds, fighting
over girls, drugs and cash
in the town's one night spot.
Drive in from the east
to be greeted by a torched hotel,
a collapsed roof and scorched rafters
do not contest the depressing sight
of a rusting fun fair to the west.
Neither of these wrecks will be cleared for years.
Like the arcades on the front
the town comes to light during the
summer months. Sun burned thighs,
spilt ice cream and donkey rides
slightly swell this seaside economy
and the hinges are greased
until autumn at least.