My trip to Dane’s Dyke

A flock of fleas fleeing far larger feet
Amidst wide white bay
Scattered with scraps and stones
Rocks that regulate the temperature below

The sea draws in
Surf is slimy and seaweed-ridden
The weed wetly clings on white rocks
There it dies and dries and decomposes

Buoys like bowling balls bob along
A stranger strongly asserts they are seals
She is wrong
They are buoys, I got close up enough to see

Here, hailing from hindered heartland
The shore is a shameless show
Of eroding earth eaten by elements
The sea’s grand gullet makes the beach grow

Remnants remain of reprobate life
Professionals of the profane
A substrate of sturdy subsistence
Comes on this beach to burn in sun and rain

Occasionally one observes an other
A creature crawling or careening
Life led in lustre to combat lacking
Desperate drive to dig deep against death

A sign says solemnly:
“Nothing, dead or alive, is to be taken away”
A protected patch of persistence
Here is a haven. Hands off.