St Agnes Head, 10.7.22

Surrealists are trying to lead astray this evening.

One of them has placed a pine bedstead

complete with mattress on the headland

among the heather,

ready for goodness knows

what comings or goings.

The skyline burns pagan red.

Two graphite smudges  on the horizon

might be painted ships from

two thousand years ago

carrying tin away from this shore.

A car full of eighty year olds

consider the sun sinking,

try not to be incinerated

by its ferocity.

On the other side a hapless

band of teenagers badly barbeque

and toast each other

with happy inanities.

From the unseen path by the shore,

where I am certain there was no one,

a single bubble rises up and 

shimmers like a shadow ghost

 of the dying sun.