Porthcothan Bay At Night


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.


people leave, one by one,

and they remain alone

with the sea, gunblack,

which throws and turns,

a humongous tongue,


They walk, hold hands

and kiss between rocks.

The water laps at their ankles;

stars stab white

in an upturned black basin.


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.

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