Forts, Turbines and Spurn Head's Spit

Forts, Turbines & Spurn Head's Spit. They jut, aggressively prominent
above the sprawling horizon, as waves slap their retreat across greying
sand and lugworm casts to leave it wrinkled and creased. Much like your
forehead, furrowed as though to retain the heat, and into which grains of
sand are sown. You tell me your eyes are streaming. And in them I see
Humber's brown waters coursing creeks, waves that wash the staves on
sheets of spumy music, a song of spearing flatfish and forgotten youth
well spent.