Channel Tunnel

Now we travel by chunnel
there's no more hassle
with customs; no rumble of hausers
snaking out of churned waters;
no green wake spinning
England away; no watching
the White Cliffs dwindle;
no going below when they've gone;
no cause to be seasick;
no time to be homesick;
no coming on deck to look out
for the first dark shadow
of France; no ultimate
bump of the bumpers
to signal arrival.

In short,
we'll never again go
really and truly
‘Abroad’.


© The Estate of Dorothy Cowlin 1998–2021. All rights reserved.

This poem is known to have appeared in the following publication:

Home Page