So I leave my friends drinking glasses of wine, ruby red like velvet skies with stars dancing in the wild and tangled heart. And before I am strangled by the thirst that set me apart, I depart from the warm interior of the pub where they often collect money for Chernobyl cancer children of Belarus.
In the summer, the steam railway brings visitors in their droves. This is where the motorway stretches to; yawning and seeking with tarmac arms and this is where it all ends in the long, light evenings.
But today the sea is relentless, demanding penance. And to kneel on shingle and scream at the sky at this corner edge of the island is the last railway stop remembered. Trapped because the only paths that lead from early sobriety are strange and uncertain. The laughs from the pub are lost and I swear that even under the glare of electric lights there is nothing left for me in that place. That is what lies behind me.
We can go no further. The jetty has been smashed by the waves; desire by the sting of the salty mist and the undercurrents are as powerful and dangerous as one covert drop of claret. The sea is violent, the sea can kill, the waves are luring me like a comfortable lace edged pillow in an open coffin that bears my name.
So there is only the reactors left, the atomic might on a baffled and drowning and drunken night. Power station towering and groaning a fission of dreams against a lead sky. Dungeness is the darkness today.
