This is a rough place where shacks die in the sun and wind and a slack-water river struggles to the sea.
Posts (leaning drunk) once held little piers for anglers who tried for trout and salmon and mullet and now they hold nothing and aim at a sullen sky.
This was a place where dreams were built in bright cottages and games were played on big lawns.
Then the river fell sluggish and a shingle bar formed to steady the sea and life and fun was blown out by easterly and westerly.
The people moved away to leave forlorn wind-swept houses and summer-brown lawns. The gnawing sea ate the coast and the land slumped and then there was just the noise of rushing water.