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The Western Docks
by Ian Burr



The summer is ending
And we stand on Samphire Hoe

Ten miles walking
To the cold of an English sea

And my troubles are breaking
As the kelp washes through my feet

Though I still pick a good luck stone,
A perfect hole

Drilled by the waters,
And I bless your name

As it slips inside my shirt.

Climbing Shakespeare Cliff
We watch the ferries

Crossing a mill-pond
The channel glitter

Is sequinned
Or a field of winter stars.

August's last moon
Rises over Calais

As we head
For the Western docks.

Dover, 31 Aug '09