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
Return to Photo-Poetry Gallery