Line of sight; cliff-top to cliff-top
Fog settled over sea and land
Echoes of a more confident time
Once majestic four storey terraces
Face proudly towards the shoreline
Their grimy cracked windows amplify
The corrosion of their iron balconies
Their dust covered doors welcome
Only the most unwelcome of guests
Time to turn, and about turn; no
This is not the joyous image
Conjured from strong accents
Reflected in sepia tone sunsets
This is not the leisurely bolt-hole
Where a days work might be rested
Where a nights dreams might begin
The search continues; inland I fear
To be away from the anticipated gear
That one assumes to surround decay
The dismay that is of a lost confidence
A lost purpose on the nations stage
Better the better people be found
I am not the man for it; too big a task
Needs immense imagination, boundless
Energy; for days, and nights, and weeks
Many months and years of rebuilding
Or children and parents & three more
Generations; all washing, washing
Their hands of the struggle, washing
The struggle right out into the sea
