On holiday all alone
As many miles as I could get from home
Without internet or telephone
In a secluded cottage by the sea
With nowhere to go and nothing to see
No one to keep me company.
The beach is dangerous, I understand
The tide moves quickly and thereís quicksand
I could have gone somewhere posh and grand
Instead of an isolated haunted cottage with a storm outside
Close to a graveyard full of the empty coffins of those who tried
Crossing the short cut sands where so many died.
How many of them see me in the night?
How many hide in the shadows beyond my candleís flickering light?
They said I was crazy and they may be right
Iím far too terrified to go to bed
In case the siren song of the whispering dead
Isnít in my imagination but outside my head
Will I go mad enough to dare the beach?
The other side of The Bay looks easy to reach
To write such horror must I practice what I preach?
Presuming I survive at all. No one will hear me call for help if I fall
Death by misadventure or suicide?
The coronerís inquest will have to decide
If I donít stay safe and sound inside
I have to face that which gives me fright.
If these are the last few lines I write
Youíll know I did not survive the night
© Copyright. Arthur Chappell
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