I walk the embankment path
along backwater boundaries
in company with bees
and the lost-child cry of curlew
where the stagnant marshland grows
green as a summer meadow.
I wave at passing yachts
that sail to visit basking seals
while gossamer garlanded grass
forms ripples to reflect
the grey-brown tributaries
so my way veers like a swaying deck.
In my pocket, pierrot dances
on a black and white shore
as daring ladies bathe by their machines
under parasols and formal suited gentlemen
raise hats and walking canes
heads shining small dark suns of brilliantine.
The background depicts a promontory
atop which stands a signal tower
named for gentle Columbine
where I stopped for some refreshment
and bought this very lithograph
as an act of nostalgic sentiment.
I climbed a spiral staircase
through five galleries of local art
and emerged upon a flag flapped platform
affording a view of the ancient trail
that I now pace to complete a circle
in a ritual without avail.
In Napoleonic times, a tower was built
to warn of invasion from the sea
while the Victorian promenade
offered no defence from tides
eroding borders defined by beach and cliff
yet still this seaside town abides.
