As dawn broke on a sullen sky,
Twas fated then that men should die,
The wind from out the south'ard blew,
And freshened as the morning grew.
While far to westward in Lyme Bay
A Landing Craft did make her way
To cross that fickle stretch of sea
So deadly named, forbidingly,
Then Nemesis bestirred to part
That vessel from its living heart.
The engines pulsing beat was dead,
Which stayed that small ship's course ahead,
For it to wallow in the path
Of stormy sea and gale force wrath.
Now anchor then, on hawser bent,
Down to the sea-bed deep was sent,
While engineers did efforts ply
That broken part to rectify.
But with the strain of mounting wave,
The hawser-wire on mooring gave
And with its parting so was lost
A life-line which was needed most.
At Wyke the troubled craft was seen
By Coastguards at their watch so keen.
From Dawn 'til dusk in fading light
Men watched her in that helpless plight,
The stricken vessel slowly bore
In heavy seas, near to the shore,
Where broken water there did reach
Full fifty-feet towards the beach,
Then from the ship a light was flashed
By "Aldis Lamp" the signal dashed,
To warn the watchers of the sea
Of help required so desperately.
Slowly the craft drew to its doom
Towards the thundering breakers boom,
Relentlessly impelled by fate
'Til overwhelmed by seas so great.
The Landing Craft, so small a ship,
Was caught within that final grip,
To ground her keel upon the shore
From which she was to rise no more.
There on the beach the Rocket-Crew
Towards the ship their lines they threw,
But with that wild terrific gale
Those rocket lines were doomed to fail.
The seamen, ceasing useless toil,
Were cast into the cauldron's boil,
And they, when failing in their hold
Must struggle in the waters cold.
Their hopeless efforts were defied
'Til life to ten was then denied.
Yet two, washed near the gathering crowd
Were rescued from a sailors shroud,
While in the dark oncoming night
There by the wheelhouse holding tight,
Some life was seen; But only two -
The remnants of a vessel's crew.
No place for timid men that day,
Though soaking wet by far-flung spray.
Among the watchers helping then
Were three, so stout, determined men,
Two Coastguards and a Fireman brave
Defied the tempest's fearsome wave -
'Twas Treadwell there, and Captain Leigh,
Who risked their lives by "working free",
And Fireman Brown with line made fast -
These three who dared the stormy blast.
They saw a chance with lesser wave
To plunge into the surf to save
Those lonely men upon the boat,
Who waited for the "forlorn mote".
These heroes three, within that lull,
Just made it to that vessel's hull,
But overhead a wave so great
Descended then to seal the fate
Of those dear gallant Coastguards two,
Who tried so hard to save the crew.
That fearless pair, their lives were lost
Beneath that seething holocaust,
While Brown a foothold he did keep,
Was seen to climb the side so steep.
Once there upon the battered deck
Of that war-plated iron wreck
So calmly then the line he coiled,
Lest on a snag his plans be foiled.
The final burst he then did make
To struggle for the wheelhouse break,
The long life-line to fasten there
Around the cold exhausted pair,
As seas about the craft still swept,
From off the deck the three men leapt,
Still clinging to the safety rope
They clambered up the shelving slope
Where many men on curb so sheer
Has tried to climb that pebbled tier,
Fate even then had not relaxed
On victims with their strength full taxed,
As life-line, breaking from the strain,
Loosed one man to the sea again.
The horrified onlookers saw
Him floating in the great sea's maw.
Then one named "Oldfield" quickly made
A dash to give the seaman aid,
And bring him from the waves once more
Towards the safety of the shore,
Where eager hands were keen to give
Such succour so that they might live.
In hazards great, with no relent,
Three hours long George Brown had spent.
This gallant man with lion-heart
Was destined for a hero's part.
Compassion shown when there was need
Expressed by his courageous deed.
As men before had died this way
A dozen lives were lost that day.
Thus "Deadman's Bay" did take its toll,
To add their names upon its Roll.

Can ever there be a more captivating sight
Than the breathtaking transit of a seagull in flight?
I watch him from Portland’s lime bleached white rocks
As a mere grounded mortal he so easily mocks.

Flawless wings ride the salt laden air
A stunning performance with infinite flair.
Sensuous artistry, elegance and grace
A bird ballet danced in molecular space.

He can glide, he can roll, he can bank, he can fall,
Lift feathers flicker just prior to the stall.
Ground effect wave hopping - just do it for fun,
Solar navigation by the light from the sun.

Effortless spirals on warm thermal wafts
He passively hovers on shear cliff updraughts.
Wheeling and plummeting he dissects the sky
This avionic masterpiece knows how to fly.

This king of the air in it's coastal domain,
Has a stable existence that's sure to remain.
But wait - there are changes far reaching and bold
The roof tops of Wyke have been slated in gold.

For man in his disgorge of consumerised waste,
Has created an idyllic seagull urban estate.
Gulls no longer need to scavenge and search,
There's food in abundance just under the perch.

Ensconced twixt the turrets of chimney pot clusters
A squadron of herring gulls inexorably musters.
Exerting their claim to this strategic territory
They quickly establish total air superiority.

An enforced no fly zone denies other birds access
The gull troops soon win this one sided process.
Their jingoistic taunts are hurled from aloft.
Life soon becomes easy and the living gets soft.

Gone are those tiring long low level flights
Now it's circuit and bumps and then party all night.
And it's conjugal right time, eggs, then a brood,
Ugly fat youngsters keep squawking for food.

Each dawn is greeted with a cacophony of screams,
At three in the morning I'm dragged from my dreams.
These repulsive great birds with their stupid webbed feet
Dive-bomb our children and guano the street.

They mess on the roofs, they squabble and fight
I detest their existence I begrudge them the right -
To terrorise our village and show it contempt.
Get back to the high cliffs it's time that you went!

The Beach

by Wendy Braden of Dawlish Crescent

The waves, like giant tongues that lick the shore
Have scraped away all night but still they roar
And now they lick up stones and toss them round
Relentlessly as stones on stones they pound
Away the beach. Why does it always stand
As if controlled by some almighty hand?
Why do the tongues not lick it all away
By pounding, pounding, pounding every day?
Yet, no, they never do. The beach stands strong
And pounding pebbles graded all along
The Lyme Bay's edge give witness loud and clear:
"I am the Mighty Chesil. I am here".