White Cliff Country by Harry Wilson

In town

your time is tied between

childcare and intoxication.

It becomes more kids, more coke,

broken bottles on chip shop steps.

Before you vote blue, to keep out

the real threat to community,

in front of the Prince Albert,

crown and sceptre, slurring

philosophy into ignorance.


At the port

you swipe on and secure your float,

check the load, the morning weather.

Two’s a fag with that one stewardess,

watch her smoke-wash away the cliffs

and castle lights no longer of attraction,

your hand a tourist in hers.

At least while you’re on the channel.


At sea

‘Are you on all day?’… ‘Yeah me too.’

‘I can’t wait to get back to Dover.’