The sands of time
The beach that looks out on the Channel
is uncomfortable, hard to walk on,
mainly shingle with just a hint of sand.
Difficult to sit on. But undeniably British.
Not far from the lifeboat station,
the arcade adjoining the caravan park
boasts of classic slot machines
from the Sixties and Seventies.
The shore is quiet. Only
the sound of waves lapping,
the mournful cries of gulls.
Bird reserve creeks in the distance.
Sun obscures the horizon.
If we return to imperial weights
and measures, can pounds,
shillings and pence be far behind?