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My Gran was a Caribbean ladyAs Caribbean as could beShe came across to visit usIn Shoreham by the sea.
Here now skyline assembles fire.The sun collects up to leave.Its bright following paled,suddenly all goes. Dusk rushesin, like door closed on windowless room.
In our flatfaces speakof places across the sea.
In our flatvoices walk intalking, but not like me.
The seagulls think we live at the seaside:the tower blocks are their cliffs;they swoop for fish in the gutterbut are happy that it's last night's fried rice.