At Shoeburyness Poem by Robert Wylie

Down beyond where the scarce sand
Apologises for dark mud,
The estuary boats rest keel-fast.

Their blacks, greys, and colours
Splinter the foreground bleakness
Like mad dentures in a
Great river's gums.

Long silent ships
Ghost away beyond sight,
Keeping, through human choice,
To the deep narrows.

Trickling through the minutes
Of another hour the tide will
Wash the canvas clean, and the boats,
In wind-borne freedom,
Will be sucked away beyond another bank
Where the tallest stacks of factories grow.

The estuary will live again
Before the giant, once more
Inhales a tidal breath,
Leaving the small boats
To dry-out in the wind and sun.