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The Western Docks
Ian Burr
The summer is ending
And we stand on Samphire Hoe
Ten miles walking
To the cold of an English sea
And my troubles are breaking
As the kelp washes through my feet
Though I still pick a good luck stone,
A perfect hole
Drilled by the waters,
And I bless your name
As it slips inside my shirt.
Climbing Shakespeare Cliff
We watch the ferries
Crossing a mill-pond
The channel glitter
Is sequinned
Or a field of winter stars.
August's last moon
Rises over Calais
As we head
For the Western docks.
Dover, 31 Aug '09