Pebbles beside gabion-baskets
Remnants of old torn fishing nets
A Saturday morning desolate beach
Before the day was even halfway ready
We were fresh off the overnight ferry
Too early to call on friends, or family
So we came to the slip we knew so well
We had even seen cars flooded there
When their owners forgot how seriously
Imminent is the spring tides ebb and flow
We almost got caught ourselves once
That day when joy overcame our senses
In the ages of less uncertainty
No need to be sure or unsure anymore
One biscuit is much the same as any other
In the great scheme of diabetic diets
The letters make words almost at random
Although the process is much the same
Through that wishful creative journey
We call the poem, or the song, or the story
Of course, that night in Lyme Bay
When I wrote of Now There Is No horizon
That resonates with me in such a way
As is not possible for the others
As the cliche reminds us
You had to have been there
To listen to Hockney talking on the radio
As the open-window let in the sea air
The roar of the last departing motorbike
Faded out to a purr as he rode out of town
Along England's oldest promenade
All of this, on a calm and moonlit night
When the gentle splash of waves
Hardly raised the pebbles sufficient
For any kind of crash at all
More like marbles cannoned
In a satin lined, string tied
Silk & velvet bag
That was then; this is now
Decaffeinated bedtime coffee
Hotel room without a view
Although a fair collection of audio reflections
From the plumbing & the central heating
A system that says you will be warm
For we know it's cold up north
And we are able to compensate
With little or no regard
For the natural environment
Little or no regard
For our own carbon footprint