Wyre

Going home across the Shard bridge spanning a rattle-snaked river that bites into the Irish sea cold-bloodedly pumping into Fleetwood's gaping fish-mouth. Here birthmarks are branded with icons like beach lighthouse at Rossall Point as Northwesterly winds whistle across the dinosaur ribbed sands. Yet towers still sentinel over the dark valley riveted in iron, rusted russet like warships wrought from steel, but aspire like a winged-spirit above backstreet's cobbled lanes that echo with drunken frenzy. The river's stenched breath perfumes the breeze with sewage leaks as passing tankers head north and farm slurry seeps into pure veins. Distantly, Alveley's coalfields fade whose ashen sides once licked red ulcers with embered tongues. Their slag banks were stacked near St Michael's whose hidden eddies still swollow many a beautifully troubled mind. Now the future skies spread star-spangled glowing with fractured light sparks that guide strangers embracing Morecambe bay's wide open seas