Beach-line tamerisk funnels salty breath;
a careful caress placed on camper canvas,
for moths settled on a shower block light a kiss,
and the man in bliss stares into the celestial clock,
a night for whiskey and taking stock, tick-tock.
The sea-sermon sucks stress from the senses,
tunnels through defences and all becomes less.
The rasp of the zip and the wet velcro tear,
sounds distant but clear; the flip-flop foot-fall
and cautious cattle call down from hills above.
With the closing husk of day all seems silent so still;
over the camp site a moist chill is offered up at dusk,
see snails stretch their tenticle form in the dark,
an old barbeque coughs a red remark, a last particle
against the sea-wet tree which shrouds the slit moon.
Low energy lights conceal low energy love;
tent-lit love, like back-lit lichen, it lingers
tired tented fingers carress in the cold night.
Lovers perform on their malleable mattress,
white tinted love on the rented tented plot.
The crack of the cockerel’s call falls across the camp site;
and the sweet scent of morning fauna filters door vents
and the termites in tents turn to toil in the sun’s sauna
making their simple victuals of bacon eggs, tea and toast,
On this coast, as on most, campers revel in this ritual.