Pillbox Thrillbox

March now, but still contorted to my post I rest

Ash-dusted dunes a bitter host

And the clouds confess –

Nothing.

Cancerous light envelops, entangles brown sea

And spreads its dirty lies.

Oh that I could sculpt the scene -

 White sand, white sheets and nuzzling thighs,

Not fear-hung waves ever fucking Time,

Trapping fish with dinner plate eyes.

Down telescope the wreck yawns statuesque.

But lifting metal scrapes wet skull

 Till thoughts of a dawn are paste

And dull salt-smattered gales taste so silent

Beside mother’s vicious siren -

That goose-stain from the mud-flats - grotesque.

I’m intrigued by these odd little beachside ornaments. Venturing into pillboxes sometimes evokes notions of simultaneous deep-time; WWII terror, modern littering and fornication coupled with some faint trace of an awful future use.