ON this sun-kissed December morning
The Pleasure Park says “rides open at”
The rides will not open at all,
The site reminiscent of the Blitz
With timber, corrugated iron strewn on the ground
As seagulls screech out a lament
And a model one, on false cliffs, looks forlorn.
Back in 1920 the Park was born.
But now it is haunted by the ghosts
Of laughing children who’ve visited over the years,
Many now old or walking the earth no more.
There are puddles by the Log Flume,
Ticket office sad and empty
And the silver soldier on horseback a lonely figure.
What will become of this lost doomed place,
An ugly scar on Barry Island’s face?
Guy Fletcher
Pantmawr
Cardiff
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