Above Dover Beach Poem by Robin Fulton

Behind convolvulus and seeding grass
we park.
We see not one scuff or rip on the Strait
to show
two thousand years and more of heavy use.

Southward
across close-to-hand glitter and far-off
mauve haze
the other side if we believe our eyes
is not

there, just as we if we believe our eyes
are here
in a universe with a homely sky
and no
looming non-universes to scare it.

Below,
Waves arrange the shingle, each with a crisp
cadence.
The tide coming in balances the tide
going out.