Death of a Pier

At some point, they stopped
the work of maintaining.
Boards came loose, rotted,
fell into the tide, became driftwood
and were not replaced.
Small things at first, but small things add up,
or as it was in this case, subtract,
bit by bit,
until nothing is left.

About this poem

About piers. About people. Sometimes I believe neglect is a slow motion form of violence.

Tom