Porthcothan Bay At Night
Here,
on wet grains,
the sea wipes sand
like rain across glass.
They sit under a tartan rug
hands down pants, fondling
as the fire cracks and chatter
spit-spurts between dark silhouettes
and ghoulish uplit faces.
They squeeze and pretend
that nothing is happening.
Tonight,
people leave, one by one,
and they remain alone
with the sea, gunblack,
which throws and turns,
a humongous tongue,
salivating.
They walk, hold hands
and kiss between rocks.
The water laps at their ankles;
stars stab white
in an upturned black basin.
Later,
as kisses turn from lips
to skin, to cloth and back,
the sea rushes forwards and retreats
a metronome to their throws.
Two sets of footsteps
stretch from rock to cove
where bent forwards,
arched back
they take turns.
