Waves sweep through railway arches
And Rip Tide and Isabella,
Sea Warrior and Connemara,
Long time inner basin residents,
Swing and sway
To a soaring seagull symphony.
Folkestone’s Marmite building too
Comes to life once more;
Buses from Runcorn, Rhyl and Redcar
Offload oversized congregations,
Suitcases outnumbered by
Disability impedimenta.
The quayside is converted
From pedestrian thoroughfare
To geriatric racetrack
As mobility scooters
Scatter unwary walkers,
While rickety zimmer frames
Clog up the wide, windowed doorway.
An elderly couple from Cleckheaton,
Weary and windswept from seafront stroll,
Stagger from harbour fish bar
To plant their tired torsos
On the refuge of roadside benches.
Weekend specials are back on the menu,
With almost every still standing Sixties star
Scheduled to perform in the coming months.
Inside, there’s not a spare seat
In the suffocating heat of the lounge bar;
Tables are laden with leftover sandwiches
And half empty glasses of gassy beer;
Debate lurches from Covid controls
To rabid rants about refugees,
Inflamed by hate-filled headlines
In the crumpled copies of the
Daily Mail and Daily Express
Left lying on abandoned chairs.
Another bus, bound for Margate,
Sandwich, Canterbury or Chatham,
Parks outside to await the sedentary rush
From couch to coach in thirty seconds;
Its passengers forsaking Folkestone
No sooner than they have arrived,
Only to return to eat and sleep tonight
Before escaping again to towns
No more deserving of their patronage.
Dover Docks and Cap Gris-Nez
Lurk somewhere beyond the growing gloom;
What catastrophes might be unfolding
On that slim, unstable stretch of water?
A headless chicken on Rocksalt’s roof
Reddens and revolves in sudden frenzy,
While in the ballroom along the road
A bingo caller hollers “two fat ladies”
To a sparse but satisfied audience.
As the sun punctually dips down
Beyond the Jelly Mould Pavilion,
The receding tide meanders
Through the East Head gateway,
And the inner harbour boats
Collapse back on their sides.
Tony Quarrington 