On a winter’s day, we took a trip to Wrabness.
I was forcibly struck by Wrabness’s drabness.
An empty street, as if everyone was ill.
The air was preternaturally still.
There was a single closed and shuttered shop.
No birds sang. It wasn’t Adlestrop.
Down at the estuary, the water was slate-grey,
the sand and stones the colour of wet clay.
The trees were black and bare, the sky was white.
The windless air retained a wintry bite.
When we got back to the station, our train had gone.
We waited on the platform as an hour dragged on.
Wrabness will remain with me, I think:
a cold, astringent but refreshing drink.
