Dunwich Poem by Martin Ward

Dunwich

The road seems as if it should go somewhere.
Heathland, atmospheric as Wuthering Heights,
hints of ghosts: a lost Atlantis.

Stand if you dare, next to the cliff top,
but do not linger as others have done:
their bones and gravestones
have slithered or fallen from the cliffs,
which await their fate by the North Sea.

What remains of England's once third
or fourth city is but a spectre.

Go down to the beach: look out to sea and imagine.

Smell the salt air and iodine;
then summon your sixth-sense:
what lies beneath the waves?
City streets and churches,
monasteries and homes.

Look amongst the pebbles,
panned and shifted
in drawing roars,
to see if you can find
a remnant of the town.

Local legend has it, that on stormy nights
the muffled toll of church bells
can still be heard.

Fishermen pull up masonry in their nets,
and coins, hand-struck from medieval times
find rest in museum or home.

Stand and look out to sea: see beneath the hues of grey.

Somewhere, out there lies Dunwich.