The Camel's head

A gouged-out tin mine
that cried white at high tide,
thundered over summers
on a sharp-stone barefoot beach.

Churned over poems
scratched onto duck stones
where rockfish spun like crocodiles,
gorging on smashed whelks.

Each morning the sun
would splash across the pool,
before a towel wrapped dash
shivered its way back up the hill
to a caravan that warmed
with coffee and cornflakes,
enough to drain the blue from my lips.