Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

As we walk to blow the cobwebs from our central heating haze,
biting wind hits our faces, lit by watery sunshine.

Dover's cliffs rise beside us, blocking the noise from
the dual carriageway that leads to the port.
How curious these famous cliffs are in fact not very white.
Scrubby olive-toned grass and rust-hued iron stains
marble the steep slopes.

Before us stretch wide sweeps of terraced concrete.
A man in black lycra from head to toe, resembling
a diver without equipment, runs passed.
Grey waves lap, almost without sound, against
the solid sea wall that hinders our view.

As we reach the end we see a woman sitting
head lowered, gazing at a fresh bunch of flowers
propped against the sea wall.
The lycra man reappears, turns, and runs back –
he passes several times during our walk.
A young family wanders by, the children running
along the wall. He is French, and the children are
shouting in English and French, with equal ease.

In a display cabinet, beside the car park cafe,
sepia photos depict scenes from the lives
of cliff base dwellers, a century ago - lives
closely linked to the sea. Families stand by their boats,
hauled up the shingle laden with the day's catch, and
we are told children were winched up the cliffs
in baskets, to attend school.

As I take in the whole scene, I sense something is missing.
The area is devoid of life. There are no gulls wheeling
beside the chalk crags; no crows squawking from
the grassy cliff top. Only a handful of grazing sheep
with alpen-like bells break the eerie silence.

Why, I wonder, has nature's fair hand not showered her blessings,
on this man-made land. Perhaps it takes time ... perhaps she has other plans.