Dover Soul

Priory terminus, necropolis,
Spiked hourly by Javelin’s thrust.
Desperate, jobless, investment wasted.
Contents from white vessels pass, unaware
Of family, all- day drink fuelled depression.
Pushchairs parked thoughtfully for untroubled sleep
In delapidated dark places embellished by charity.
Bluebirds flown.
A town torn from Santa’s map

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