Margate.

Margate.

Where the sky meets the sea

The line is blurred.

A shadow blanket falling

Into a wash of grey,

As empty containers,

A fleet of ghostly vessels

Steel giants

Ride at anchor.

Laid up,

A mile or more, off shore.

Maybe with skeletons

Still in their closets.

They wait,

For the tide’s turn

And the mist to lift,

Before they sail

Up the coast to the

Estuary.

Turner would wonder

At ships without masts

Heartless leviathans

Riding the waves

With barely a tilt

Or a roll.

No need of ropes

Or tying off,

He could stand or sit

And spit paint

At a canvas on the deck.

Find the fire

That may yet

Explode from within

The drab drizzle of hues

That bleed into the oily brine

And still be home for tea.

He could hang his wares

In his own gallery,

And wonder at the faded

Grandeur of the old town.

A sad end to Victoriana,

The inevitable,

Slow leech of gentrification

That even now creeps over

The mouldering,

Fish and chip scraps,

Kiss me quick hats

Of dreamland.