A congregationOf nettles now reclaim yourBroken, burnt-out frame.
Out there under theWaves ─ with your cottages andSunken church tower.
Stranded now in theBattle Zone ─ with your old gravesAnd your blast proof roof.
You came back to lifeAs a training ground for streetFighters and snipers.
St Felix, Babingley
Suffocated byIvy ─ your vital signs growWeaker and weaker.
One church is ruined;One is abandoned; and oneStill lives on its hill.
St Edmund, Egmere
They stripped out the bellsFrom your tower and pulled downYour nave and chancel.
Rising out of the Sea ─ the ghost voices of theOld, dead villagers.
Today, only theSheep remain ─ moving like cloudsOver the earthworks.
That sense of somethingVanished ─ like ghost-light fleeingIn the Bure's mirror.
Among the shellingAnd machine gun fire lieYour unquiet dead.
Impermanent still:Beach chalets and caravansWait to be reclaimed.
You were excludedPermanently by Coke'sSix mile long wall.
Lady KatherineAnd Sir Clement ─ frozen nowIn alabaster.
Your broken, sandyLand reverted finallyTo rabbit warrens.
Ashby and Oby
Are gone now ─ like theHorn-helmeted Norsemen whoSeeded their place names.