Waves mark the edge of my world;
brown with estuary mud,
where they break and foam like espresso,
but with a sharp smell of detergent.
I think I can see France,
yet I know it is the Medway,
just as foreign in its desolation
that it may as well be labelled: ‘Here Be Dragons’.
The multi-legged skeleton of the Pier
keeps rising out of fire
and blazes salamander bright at night
with patterned scales of illumination.
I watch floating skyscrapers of tankers
heading for the terminal beyond Thorney Bay,
where floodlit gas cylinders bloom
with all the sci-fi surrealism of Quatermass 2.
And omigod the sky, the sky;
full of a billion alien suns and satellites
that dwind-twink-le into infinity
in a maelstrom of mythic beasts and heroes.
I hear the sound of Telstar and strange voices
from Luxemburg that overwhelm the Light,
while pirates chatter in the Channel
and define the language of modernity.
Relentless raindrops beat upon the roof
of a caravan that cooks with Calor gas
and flickers with the blue glow of a mantle
as I shake out my pacamac to dry.
The Esplanade is still drowning
and bells ring on ghost trains, circling
at the foot of a grass embankment,
which I roll down, down, even today.
I stand up in a tie-dyed vest and pleated loons,
taller than my father, as we drink tea
in a deco cafeteria and I cannot remember
if the beach is sand or shingle.
