Hand in hand we walked to the end of the pier.
Sharing a new year moment, an opening in time.
The pier, this line perfect pier, was ours. The storm had passed.
Sea blasted knitting softened a hard line of steel lattice and
an overturned summer holiday photome glistened bright wet.
I turned round to the wind sheltered booths and saw the shrine.
Words jumped out at me and drew me in.
Make me complete.
Perfect and beautiful.
I could not sit. But stood and shared the winds silence.
A story of joy and tragedy measured in 3 brass plaques.