You gave me hope when there was none,

from the misery in the mother and baby units

from my child's extraction, enraged breasts

useless. It was death, childbirth.

I too sat on the beach, at Southbourne

suicidal, with remorse reeking with illness;

I dug my fingers into the dark, cold sand,

and tussled with the need to stay awake.

I suppose the beach at Hastings was ...

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