Saturday, April 09, 2016

(With apologies to Sir John Betjeman)

I know so well this turfy mile.
These clumps of sea-pink withered brown.
The breezy cliff, the awkward style.
The sandy path that takes me down

To crackling layers of broken slate
Where black and flat sea-woodlice crawl
And isolated rock pools wait
Wash from the highest tides of all.

I know the roughly blasted track
That skirts a small and smelly bay
And over squelching bladderwrack
Leads to the beach at Greenaway.

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