Winchelsea Beach Poem by Dan Morton

The waves have claws that rake the shingle and worry
the rotting defences. The wind pushes and pulls
with hands of drowned sailors reaching for shore

The seas gentle roar.

Above, the gulls are gliding and crying out
for lost love and wasted chances, a siren call
to the distant and lonely.

And the seas gentle roar.

The caravan parks are empty, playgrounds deserted,
it's just me and the gulls and the beach and the sea.

And always, the seas gentle roar.