Kessingland Coastal

Not sand, not sun, nor smells of sea,

No laughter sounds - no children's glee,

No whims of fancy, tourist traps,

No sun cream oils, no wide rim hats,

Not these I see today.

No tinted shades, no heated glare,

No postcards home but I was there,

What memory could there be to make,

Lay to rest this fisherman's’ wake?

No words or rhyme could surely say!

Timber, canvass, fishing wire,

A spike of metal for a spire,

Shrine of nothing - laid to waste,

A man made cast off - how it baits.

Nature grasping in the wind;

Kessingland Coastal a melody dimmed.

©Philip Holden

2003

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