I remember in 1991 walking on the white cliffs of Dover
and thinking how fortunate I was to be there.
It was a place of great hope for the men of the 1940s
and became a popular war tune sung by Vera Lynn, and many others.

The wind began to lick at my face and run playfully down my back.
I thought I heard in the clouds above me, the most lovely of melodies.
The lilted song splashed back and forth against the ivory crag.
I now realise it was the spanking breeze whirring about my head.

Looking out over the frothy waves, I gathered those memories tightly in my hand,
put them in my coin pocket and agreed to save them for a rainy day.