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Cove Hill

The years gnaw away at the coastal fringe
Some cling, ringed and wretched, then fall
Others girth fear, then backwards they lurch
With their progeny, facing the wall

Was that guardian of time banal,
Right in predicting that all
Would succumb to the legacy given
And bequeath the pall darkened sea?

Boiling below, and biding its time
For those unborn migrants
Scrambling for land
Never free

Who dealt us this hand?
Did we foreshadow it?
Building bright spires
Lighting signal fires

Designing our hamlets,
To echo an old country
Seen by so few, and yet
Dreamt at, created anew

Street by street, a million fold over
In a binding thresh of humanity
Delivering for some
Dwindling for most

Here comes the end of a river,
Replenished less frequently
Trickling beneath the concrete echoes
Of cobbled streets

Thinner and thinner, we crouch
As sick natives at the drying banks
And scoop for that lustre
Of slaking hope

And gorge on our brim cup
That last giving drop
That solving humility
Yet, never give thanks

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I appreciate moderate constructive criticism
Last few words: 
Cove Hill represents a number of coastal communities, could be anywhere in the world - tell me what you think.
Editing stage: 


but I would not put that on you. Some one said once that when a poem is being read it is not the poet being judged, but the reader.
I found it to be something of a history lessons ala Michener in verse.
Your language use is startling. Impressive.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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