Folkestone

Folkestone

Volk,
Town.
Romans dressing up,
Like soldiers,
In the hill
Fort.
In the day,
A ten-meter dish
On The Roughs.

To steal a March,
To hear Them.
To Fortell
Of those already here.
Now they're all over us,
Triumphant almost,
Like their truncated armor.

On Dover Hill,
Concrete Radar,
Still and Sounds.


27 March 2001