Beachy head

Tyre tracks end at the cliff edge. Sneaker prints in the kaolin, so many footprints. But these were not carried by Christ, they were pushed by lack of faith. An eerie solitude breaks, from crying winds which carry foam from the mouth of the sea, Spit from mouths of the damned, islands of the deepest blue, In the mainland of the abyss. They fell 500 feet. From ochre cliffs through skin of water. Ending their lives, beginning death. Five hundred feet on to jagged rocks, such valour in so called cowardice.