This could be Boulogne – or
Dover – a common sea view

across auld enemy lines – a
pill-box of red brick squats –

A prompt of bone-bred fear
of foreigners has this resort-

isle juddering – Beauty then
rises from her shingle-stuck

dinghy to meet ugly Sussex
thugs – I skipped flat stones

over breaking waves onto a
dappled shine of rise & falls

to loud counts – a stuttered
despatch by warm tongues –

by a converse of breathtide
[set in fenny heads at birth]

as nitid stones chart a route
to my loosened grip of land

[& cruel chants forge a word
cloud ‘bove a huddle’s hate]