7. Except in struggle, there is no more beauty. No work without an aggressive character can be a masterpiece. Poetry must be conceived as a violent attack on unknown forces, to reduce and prostrate them before man.

Come on let’s set fire to the library shelves.

Incandescent shore fired

Flies stones rage burns

Orange tracery

Bread house Volvo love

Bonnet Orlando

Puffs of smoke

A small cluster of horses

Deep waxy browns

A crow mobbing a marsh harrier

A flat alluvial plain

Glacial curvature of the peninsular

Parts of the shoreline are expanding

WW2 pill box on top of 17^th century Martello tower

The brutalist bungalow

Mad uncle Bertie

Excessive use of the word fucking

Setting a mean pace on the track

Starlings swifts and swallows

The telegraph poles

The dwellers

Sea Astor Musk thistle and English Scurvy Grass

Rust colouration infused fauna

Currents converging

Clashing and coruscating

Ford Escort father turning right across our path, his cigarette hanging out the driver’s side window

So long it almost scrapes the road

Barrow burial mound and sightings

Cold war paranoia bristles amongst the ferns

Abandoned silos and the Pagodas opposite Orford Castle

Sea defence

Solid bungalows

Steady like the landscape

Sandy loam & flint

Shire horse escapee

On an indefinite tariff

Hopeless

Shaded forest lane

Living right

Relaxing right

Container citadels

10 stories high slip over the horizon

It cannot hold them

Offshore metal patchworks

Geological speculators

Surprised a hare shoots across the shingle

Said to be a symbol of rebirth in lunar cosmology

I saw two during the course of the blood moon

The significance of this is unknown to me

But under the water it was clear

Sometimes the abyss stares back

Berula erecta and bellis perenniss

In the morning swim the moon is still high

Ultra arid

Frog echo

A lunar spit

Badger set under the road

Vast sky

Chinese ships

Variable heat haze

Minsmere Orford Snape

Sea salt exalt salt spray spit

A tiny crab too small to nip

Shell casing translucent

A thirty-year-old lobster

Shell worn and battered chips off the pincers

Barnacles seaweed covered

Smudged brown and red

The mongers’ wife picks it up it comes to life

Powerful crustacean

Like an Anglo Saxon king on a burial mound of ice

“If nobody buys him we’ll put him back”, showpiece

Curry plants lobsters eyes treacherous currents eighties popstar

Storm clouds gather to the west

Of the peninsular

Shards of white rain pulse through the billowing black

We watch the drama slowly unfold from the lookout tower

Surrounded by paperback books

It is some kind of paradise

Curtains of clouds distant rumbles

Malevolent black clouds.