Being from a young nation you find that dawn beguiles you

onto the exhausted saltmarsh,

miles of morose vacuity clad

in couch grass, cottonweed, random puddles, wire

and the odd, triumphant

                     flourish of pampas grass

featherily trying to tell dead factories,

                               Look here,

something fans, even at the far edge of Europe

where large gulls crowd and abruptly dip, although

the fish have all gone home to bed.

Europe, you mutter to yourself and

one German shepherd appears

prettily barking in beige middle-distance,

trying to guard these demi-ruins

of the elf-king’s estate.

Way behind you the brisk town centre

blushes and waits, in the guise of confidence

strung on a canal,

wings fledged with credit ratings.