MUNDESLEY’S BEST REACH Wendy Webb
There aches no bluer sea, for Mundesley’s reach
genuflects in ships on the horizon.
A snaking steeping promenade invites
beach-steps of land and sky in tide and surf.
This cultured pearl grits dream pearl-open shell
to tourist threads round fresh necks every year.
Here, Constable paints light like Suffolk sky,
engaged to brash-bright beach huts, Southwold rich.
Fresh bathers prey on salt, like sideways crabs;
primary buckets, spades and paddle-pools.
Recycled human flesh of every shape,
that castles little England for one day.
The ceaselessness of shorelines, colour charts
of bathrooms, kitchens, lounges on the beach.
Showered sand, hot tea, drip-sweet ice cream;
Canute, they parch to sun tans, sand in cracks.
A woolly mammoth leers, or sabre-toothed,
to shades of cave eyes, siege-storms, spark and night.
Black Shuck howls, but a breath on Cromer’s cliffs.
This backwater, unfocused and unframed.
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