Here they loaded tanks and men for D.Day.
In landing craft for France.
And horses too, with spears and arrows.
For an earlier war.
From water’s edge to France.
Here the land ends in mud, black mud.
And seagulls squabble noisily, with,
Plaintive, raucous cries, for bits and scraps of offal.
Carelessly cast by men from casual boats.
Where land and water changing meet.
Here they come for fishing.
For sailing, or to tout for customers.
For charter hire, or simply,
To rest their weary minds and bones,
From city’s stress. At water’s edge.
Life giving balm of salt, of wind’s shrill,
Refreshing draught of cold with clear clean sunlight.
Backs turned on urban cacophony.
To listen to the harmonious symphony,
Of nature’s bird calls and the tide.
Here little children dangle lengths of string,
With bacon tied, to lure the little crabs.
And pop them in a bucket, then to see,
Who can catch the biggest or the most.
Then tip them back at water’s edge.
Go home to tea and cake.
Here the cormorant, the heron and the gulls.
Great black backed, or small black headed.
Search the shore for scraps of flesh.
While little girls throw breadcrumbs.
And older boys dig worms.
Here the terns, when Summer sun,
Beats down to warm the shallows.
Bank, swoop and dive for sand eels and little fish.
Airborne acrobats, swift flyers, swimmers too.
In endless search for sustenance and a mate.
Here no sun-drenched sand, nor swaying palm.
No noisy night life, nor light of clubs and bars.
No youth intent on pleasures dearly bought.
Just the pub, a clubhouse for the yachts, grey black mud, birds.
And waving weeds, some rotting hulks of boats at water’s edge.
Where solitude and tide give peace.