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
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