Trefin
After a hike, in the Ship Inn,
my body is like the skeleton
in my mother’s closet,
strung together with picture wire.
I rub tomato ketchup on my lips,
eyeball a young Dracula,
who runs out crying for mam,
dropping his fangs. I lick my lips.
Three feisty ghouls clatter in
with shredded coats
and pitchforks, giggling
over a packet of lovehearts.
A man with four sparkly tridents
and a horned baby asleep on his arm
shouts “cokes for all the devils”,
and aims his credit card at the bar.
Outside, a breeze, stiff from the sea,
whistles through the pallets
of a towering woodstack
in a circle of standing stones.