The firing range dates back

Over one hundred years

But its decay is quite recent

With every storm the sea

Claims its rich reward

Stern notices instruct one not to enter

Private Property

Danger

Padlocks

Strong gates

Feeble fences

Yet if one walks a few hundred yards

Then there is a friendly gate

Which gives easy access to the firing range

An obvious notice tell visitors

That there is no access to the beach

(No Shit Sherlock)

And to be careful

As everything is ready to collapse

(Really)

The huge white cliffs are known worldwide

But are almost modest in their stature

I was Billy No Mates

On the day of my visit

(I prefer it that way)

I spent my time with the butterflies

Spectacular in colour

Who within a month

Would perish without trace

In the cooler winds

Beauty is fleeting

My friend

Beauty is fleeting

Had been crudely written nearby

It made me smile

As I am a marine philosopher

In my spare time