In every tuft of dew-drenched grass
And every slice of crumbling chalk,
The howl of history is heard
Across this patch of green I walk.
Ferries no longer line the pier,
Nor steam from up trains fill the air,
The view replaced by Folkestone sign
And Burstin’s monumental glare.
Mouldering Martello tower,
Former lookout for all that floats,
Stares out today at pitch and putt,
And bowling club instead of boats.
Above sharp pointed St. Peter’s spire
The roar of spitfires still turns heads
Of tourists, swimmers, fishermen,
And foragers on fossil beds.
The Chinese Elvis lives here now,
From Old Kent Road to East Wear Bay,
No ghetto or jailhouse in sight,
But bungalows and children’s play.
On ten thousand year old Jock’s Pitch,
Where breathless dogs now chase balls,
A caldarium bubbles underneath
And another chunk of cliff top falls.
Tony Quarrington 