Folkestone: Where Nothing Ever Happens

Heaven is a place
Where nothing ever happens.
Where misplaced items lay,
mourning their owner's absent-mindedness,
for Aeons, like nihilistic relics.
Where the tide,
with tedious uniformity,
rises,
only to inevitably
sink
with disappointment.
Where the seeded weeds on rocks
seem eternal, slippery and unchanged.
Where the only sound to break the silence
is the fascist sea
telling all who dare to speak or sing
to
"Sssssssssshhhhhhh!"
Where rests only grey, soulless sand
or dirty brown mud.

Is this Heaven? Or Hell?

Heaven is a place
where nothing ever happens.
Colourful misplaced shoes, rags
and miscellany.
A testament to man's humour
and forgetfulness.
Halcyon relics of love, laughter and activity.
Where the percussive tide
dances to the rhythm of life
with uniformity, but soul.
In,
out,
in,
out,
like a beating drum.
Where strong seaweeds
parade their prowess,
remaining ever present,
and children wail with laughter
as they climb
and
    slip.
Where the sea begs you to
"Ssssssssshhhhhh!"
Only so you can appreciate her
delicate roar above your joy.
Where huge rude dawbings
break the monotony of the sands
bringing mirth to all who seem them
from the towering cliffs.
And dank mud, strewn
with lost wellies
and sodden bicycles
telling of jolly misfortune.

Where nothing ever happens?
Could be Heaven or Hell,
depends on how you look at it.