Above, burnt ochre buildings line the streets.
Pensioners potter along the prom, wistfully
wishing for what’s been gradually washed away.

Below, a lonely pigeon looks across the
littered shell fragments lying lost to time
and tide, as trickling memory takes and steals.

Beyond, a rusting wreck decays. Wrapped in seaweed ribbons it rests and dreams of rites
of passage past and present and yet to come.

We spent a lovely day today wandering around Old Hunstanton, and as we wandered various lines began to coalesce.
(05.08.26)

© Ben Quant 2026