Blackpool

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Sand-scoured, the dead tree slabs a path
Forge-dripped iron staking it in place
Straight and true, straight and narrow
Hangs suspended from the smearing clouds
Holding back the tamed and raging sea
Where man-god speaks, ‘let light be’
And spears the poles that make it so.
Victorian victory, monument to leisure
Epicurus strolls into the vanishing point.

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