Memories of Fairlight

A rusty oven protruded out of the rubble.
Someone had cooked on that stove once,
lived within those walls,
laughed in that kitchen.

They had stained their lips
red with glasses of wine
while listening to Southern FM.

Now, the wind and the sea
had taken half the house captive
and ramblers traversed the tiles
in trainers and walking boots—
suddenly pensive and quiet.

The remains of the wall were
a faded shade of apricot.
Angry spray paint screamed,
FUCK CAPITALISM
in blood-red tones.

Peering over the edge of the cliff,
passers-by eyed the surging beast
below as it slowly ripped
the stone away
from under
their
feet.

It was a steady work in progress
that only relented with the tide.

Like a bow on the string of a violin’s
moonlit serenade, the sea,
held in the clutches of that great
nightly ghost, would return with
the precision of the hand that guided it.

One-by-one, particles would surrender,
turning rock into sinking ships,
pulled downwards by
gravity’s firm embrace.

The sea would wave goodbye.
The wind would howl into
the doorless kitchen cabinets,
and the gulls would caw
around the cove.

Routinely, clouds would gather for the final rites
and season the sea with salty tears.