It was a gift, and is engrained with the words
“The whole world is about three drinks behind”
now it catches up-in
humour;
of marathons, and sprints, families of credit
hustling their own into bunkers at the coast edge;
where the crevice can house no more than two,
watching the war come
from a small peep hole.

I look inside and see the wealth of crushed cans
and crisp packets, I walk over the mixed grass
and sand rock finding a place that stares out to the sea;
better than I can, but is happy to seat me
for a while, words of love affairs
cut into the smoothing rocks;
and they wont last a thousand years,
but have endured until now,
my skin resting upon them,
as I accept the seas hypnotising world,
which is enough.