To the statue of Eric Morecambe
Here you are, mid–
skip, suspended
in that merry dance
with which you ended,
like the blessing bestowed
on the departing faithful,
your marvellous performances.
The sand dances behind you.
The lights go up. The lights go down.
The gulls, with their jeering voices,
evoke unfruitful afternoons
in Scarborough, Eastbourne or Rhyl.
This is immortality.
What do you think of it so far?
But still they come – not in hordes
but in dwindling numbers,
calculable by actuaries –
to pay their due respects
to you, bold lad, bright spark,
apportioner of hilarity,
bringer of fun, bringer of sunshine, bringer of love.
