A Poem for Dawlish
Bird watching colonels on thr old sea wall,
Down here in Dawlish where the slow trains crawl;
Low tide lifting, on a shingle shore,
Low sunk islands from the sea once more;
Red cliffs rising where the wet sands run,
Gulls reflecting in the sharp spring sun;
Pink-washed plaster by a sheltered patch,
IIex shadows on a velvet thatch;
What interiors those names suggest!
Queen of lodgings in the warm south-west.
John Betjeman
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