Dungeness – March 9th, 2018.

Brut concrete lines, aged

and crinkled, adding ersatz shingles

to a saved and solemn beach.

Beech gantries lead to stern signposts

warning of ripped seas warmed, given

unexpected life by outcast wattage.

I could swear I’m in Alamogordo

or maybe Yucca Flats after

the mannequins have burned.

I could swear Werner Herzog

has been here, rehearsing scenes

from Fitzcarraldo – Kinski’s eyes

wide and fuming, railing against

the hepatic, snow sick skies

of the Capital Wasteland.

I could swear the coach with fish-eye

windscreen, sleeping in a ramshackle

rickle of wood and steel and union flag,

could take me back to the 1950’s

for three shillings and sixpence

and a rousing hurrah for the Queen.

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