The Cow’s Horn - Trudie Shannon

We walk the cliff paths, passing by
The German cemetery and the Fort, turned housing estate.
Then we amble onto the Cows Horn
Wander amidst the defensive ruins of a different age.
Some are disguised by softly growing camouflage.
While symbolic cannon sit, scattered black,
Like ill sown seeds.
Huts, once ammunition stores, are barred shut
Against tramps and wayward youth.
We clamber up overgrown steps to stand
Atop the concrete skeleton of a gun emplacement.
Its redundant tracking revealed, exposing
Neglected teeth in rusting, graphic testimony to its past.
We are drawn to it, bidden invisibly and see that
The track arc has become transformed
Is silently beautiful.
Rust blooms weep into the bald, decaying concrete.
At our backs the sea glitters, seagulls sweep the skies
And in the distant haze, France shimmers.

Trudie Shannon