Isleham road winds like a cobblestone ribbon, dropping off

to ribbons of white, dipping on a ribbon of sea-glass blue ocean,

My ancient castle tells ancient tales and laughs at my own age,

so devoid of words like wisdom and experience,

snaking a ribbon of fear against ribs extended with the climb

salt tickles my cheeks and tells me a story about a queen standing here, hair flying,

on a cliff that gives way to hostile grey rocks below,

hammered by navy blue hands and feet

She stands there and looks out at her opposition and smiles

And a stout woman, here and now, sits on her chair, knee-high hose sausaging

below her plump knees

and she cackles and gossips and flicks a spark off her cigarette

A folded Globe newspaper spreads its wings and flaps against the stiff breeze

smelling of kelp and decay

Fish and chips folded in newsprint crinkle in my hands and I pinch off the briny gift

soaked in malt vinegar and history

A ribbon of courage turns my head to the sea

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