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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

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