From the Road


Woodingdean, Brighton.

The razored lawn cemetery,
there, down from the road,
with lonely St Dunstan’s
always stood distant
as a fixed backdrop,
on the near-blind cliff-top,
the far site reduced
by a rolled sea fret,
as gulls in the foreground,
rain-danced on the turf
to bring up fooled worms.


 

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