Postcard from Blackpool
¶ 1
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It’s blowing a gale and we’re at the seaside –
Bloomfield Road; a ground of wood and corrugated tin –
flapping and rattling like a Gateshead allotment.
¶ 2
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Imagine the din – the wind – and the state we’re in –
full of beer and ‘dogs and far from the bogs.
¶ 3 Leave a comment on verse 3 0 And yet there comes a magic moment.
¶ 4
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It comes sailing in –
high and wide
but not too handsome.
Suddenly – invisible hand of God? –
it seems to change course
and swerve
under the bar
like a homing pigeon.
¶ 5
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Gascoigne.
Who else?
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