Away With The Fairies

Sea spray cools the air by the cave on the headland
where they meet at dusk. Lips seek lips. Eyes scan
the beach. Yes. They are alone...

Save for the bird-brained old biddy, with her pitch
by the groyne, who mutters profanities – a length of rope
for her belt. Only … she doesn’t count.

Theirs was a sordid, rushed affair. A house, a mortgage –
two kids apiece. If they could only put the clock back
they’d do things differently next time.

Passion seeks its reward. Claws at zips and buttons,
as on the shingle they rock and they roll
in rhythm to the surf’s rise and fall.

In the afterglow of it all, he lights her cigarette – she his,
as they watch a distant steamship skirt the horizon;
one last lingering kiss at the foot of the cliff.

He sported a trench coat and a bottle-green trilby.
She wore dark glasses and a black, paisley scarf,
yet the night was warm, so very warm.

The bird-brained old biddy, with her pitch by the groyne
mutters, “Dam ‘em all!” Everyone knows, she’s away
with the fairies; a length of rope for her belt.

Their bodies were found at first light – a black scarf
and a trilby. A tragic landslip. Who they were, no one knew.
Save for the bird-brained old biddy, in a pair of dark glasses.
Only … she didn’t count.