Honeymoon

Strumble Head

We pegged our tent to the scrub

at Strumble Head, a mussel on a rock,

watched the November sun plop into black

and the start of the free star-show.

We wedged the stove out of the wind,

broke veg, threw lentils in, knocked back

red wine from tin mugs, feasted

clad in bobblehats, breathing out fog.

We slid into sleeping bags,

zipped out the world, stuck the bottle

in the tent pocket. In nature’s silence

and the blackness of seven o’clock

we braced the first shiver of undressing

and the exquisite search for warmth.