Durdle Door

Durdle Door

This gateway to England in Dorset,
Complete, it will never be whole,
For flowing right through with the air and the sea,
The Nations own voice and our Islands true Soul.

So solid and sculpted and rugged –
The breath through its mouth is in awe –
Resisting the crashing of waves at its feet
And yet always a welcoming door!

So typically British, it smiles in the rain;
Its humour, a stoic, rock feather.
Eccentric, it puts on it’s gardener’s hat;
There’s never the wrong kind of weather!

In sunshine, still shining, from dusk until dawn,
And daily it drinks the sea har.
Sincerely it asks where you’re going
And whether you’ve really come far!

Yes, sail past this monument carved in our shore
Explore every crevice and etching.
Those wise, aged wrinkles adorning its face
Politely enquire who you’re sketching.

As if whispering “facts could be fiction” it burst:
“I saw Nelson sail forth, and Drake and young Cook.
They were all such beginners at first.
Their signature waves in my Visitors book.
Adventurous, daring, they had such a thirst
They tied ‘why not?’ in ropes and just went for a look.”