This land, chewed, bitten and gouged out,
Soon yields to the ravenous maw of the sea.
And beyond both, untouchable, fickle
And free, the clear light dominates.
Here Turner would have willingly
Lashed himself to any stormbound sail,
And I have seen sea battles between
Snow scuds of lowering clouds
And spangled rays of golden light,
Contesting a dim, uncertain horizon.
And after, across the brackish Broad,
Water stippled with blue and pink and gold.
The men with the clipboards came,
Examined the huddle of houses, the old
And forlorn church, behind the crumbling cliffs.
They announced a programme of passive
Sea defence, which means no defence at all.
Let the sea dictate, let the lovely
Luminous law of light dictate.
And let it be left to the patient fishermen,
Let it be left to the quiet, thoughtful walkers,
Let it be left to the poets and their dreams.