Oh to the strandline he said
When a gale from the south west blows for three days
Oh to the rolling foam
Whose gifts it brings are my home
Oh for the wrecking days
Atlantic castaways
Plastic and stone
Oh for the wrecking days
Atlantic castaways
Cuttlefish bones
There lies a daily archive
A beachcomber's paradise waiting at low tide
Impatience when the sea is high
For the waves to grow tired of painting the coastline
Find me a washed up story
From a plastic bottle top
Or untangle fishing tackle t
That the sailors forgot
From Lundy to The Lizard to the Isle of Wight
Ships turned to driftwood overnight
Take care from Thames up to Tyne
Humber, Forth, Fisher, German Bight
Oh to the strandline
We'll send a message to the Baltic Sea
To be found by a seafaring man
With a line on his face for every high tide he's ever seen