DUNGENESS

Boats that belong to better days
Mingle with iron flotsam
Washed ashore on a sea of shingle

Fishermen’s shacks sit like pygmies
In the shadow of the power station
Their colourful facades
Browbeaten by nature’s extremes

A stone garden sprouts incongruously
Beside one such dwelling;
It does not bloom in spring
But neither will it die when winter comes