PILLBOX MAN... (My poem about Mothecombe beach, South Devon...)

 Pillbox Man…

Dusk.

Barely a movement here,

Just the apologies for waves

Slapping upon hardening sands

And on stranded kelp and broken edges from 

shattered shells

Across the moonlit beach, which Mothecombe spans.

Cool.

Barely a sound here,

Just the swish of marram,

Erect in abandoned dunes

And the complaints of crows and the scrabbling of invisible rodents,

Which add to the most discordant of tunes.

Row.

Barely a splash now,

Just the dip of oars

Slipping beneath darkening sea

And the creaks of the prow and the sharpening 

rushes of nervous breaths,

Plus the gasps my aching muscles force from me…

Moor.

Barely a delay now,

Just the wring of rope

Tightening around a rusty pole

And the hoots of owls and the scraping of boots upon desperate footholds,

As I anchor myself, to fulfil my clandestine role.

Pillbox.

Barely any comfort here,

Just an uncomfortable heat

And the quickening of heart’s erratic beat and the frowning lids of straining eyes,

Anxious that the camouflage would remain discreet.

Duty.

Barely a rest now,

Just a nervous chilling   

And the throbs of excitement and the itchy desire of 

trigger fingers,

Aimed and committed to unquestioned killing…

Pete Ray…

Mothecombe beach’s defensive ‘pillbox’ nestles still, just above sea-level but below a high cliff, with what looks like its own ring of rocks as a tiny harbour. 

I wanted to be the Pillbox Man…

MOTHECOMBE BEACH WHEN I WAS LAST THERE, APRIL 2008...