A short walk along the cliff
Then back to damp beds.
Through the misted windows
The sea pounds.
Waves cresting and marbling.
Hardly any driftwood on the bench
For our meager fire.
We huddle over the embers,
Dreading the wood-lined bedroom and the early dark.
The surfers don’t give up easily.
Turning endlessly to try again.
Then, legs trembling, weary at last,
They stand beside the camper van to dress,
Then up the road to home and tea and bath.
They’re lucky, we have one cold tap,
No bath no lavatory here.
Just the grim satisfaction of swinging the bucket
Throwing out urine in a golden arc
Onto the unkempt garden.
We should never have come here in November.