There was a field once under where I stand
Old grass is pressed under the weight of shingle
People walked there under this tree.
Now I can sit in the treetop
Still stands, living, leaving, green in Spring,
And my feet are on the ground.
It's an old place, quiet in grey days
The waves throw themselves down, crash on the pebbles
And drag them back.
You'd think the sea was hungry
The way it's eating up the land.
This is soft land, the chalk cliffs crumble
I walk and wonder,
With the white dust over me,
Will there much longer,
be a here to stand?