in the quaint village of Shaldon
a smugglers tunnel leads to a secluded beach:
I don't know if any really came
yet I imagine the ghosts of pirates,
rough sailors with torchlights and goods galore
who've alighted from their boat on the shore
in wild winds but now it's sedate,
autumn sun escaping dark clouds
creating silver gems on the turquoise sea,
impotent waves sizzling on the sand.
I re-enter the tunnel a mere tourist
with just a rucksack, nothing of worth,
smugglers from long ago...all in the earth.