Beware of a sharp unguarded point

I remember Cornwall and the holidays we
wintered there, in our static caravan
by the high cliffs, amongst the rough
winds and cobbled beaches that bruised
Our feet and required the use of stout
walking boots just to reach the foam

that never tasted as good as it looked
and where pink toilet paper snaked
through the water like a nightmarish
beast from the deep, with sharp inverted
teeth but kind on your bum and available
in three different varieties from the

camp shop that still had the old
style 5ps and yards of garden twine
and crab fishing lines that seemed to speak
of adventures with rosy-cheeked holiday
makers who spent their days dipping children
into rock pool sanctuaries while
trying to avoid the dog-poo

The Bottle Lies Empty

lately I find the bottle lies empty
the darkness has come and is clinging to me
and I feel like the man come home
to be washed by his woman
in the coal black waters
of the sea

she holds him close and calls him love
and sadly he looks to her lips
as if to ask permission
to kiss his love whom he misses at work
and who waits by the gate
for his return

lately I find these days grow dark too quickly
the children stand around and practice their spitting
by the bus stop, that reminds me of home
and she whom I love who left me
before I killed us
both