The White Cliffs.

Three hundred and thirty feet high,
the white cliffs beckon.
I ran towards them as a child,
excited to see them lit by the sun,
and still they call.

Across the bay, away in the distance,
they are always there,
hiding softly in the mist,
floating above a roaring sea,
shouting in the glow of late afternoon.
A careless line of gleaming chalk
stretched across the far distance,
to watch and wait.














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