My Gran was a Caribbean lady
As Caribbean as could be
She came across to visit us
In Shoreham by the sea.

Here now skyline assembles fire.
The sun collects up to leave.
Its bright following paled,
suddenly all goes. Dusk rushes
in, like door closed on windowless room.

In our flat
faces speak
of places across the sea.

In our flat
voices walk in
talking, but not like me.

The seagulls think we live at the seaside:
the tower blocks are their cliffs;
they swoop for fish in the gutter
but are happy that it's last night's fried rice.