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]