by Elementalpixie

Time sets its layers as the years go by,
And yet it seems in Hastings cracks appear,
As if the past is constantly near by,
And history tries to break through its veneer.
And as the moon takes refuge in the cloud,
The sound of whispered voices on the shore,
I seek the shadows, keeping my head bowed,
For so it seems that Smugglers pass once more.
Or sounds of laughter carried on the breeze,
On picture postcard days, the weather fair,
I close my eyes and picture then with ease,
The Lords and Ladies come to take the air.
And as I stand, my face towards the spray
It feels as if the years are stripped away.

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