Kessingland
sits fog-cloaked
across the channel
from Holland.

At Zandvoort dunes
wind bites bone
ruddies cheeks raw.
Lager tins and crisps,
downed waiting—
for the flat to fill again
with stories, laughter.

Night nears.
A pudgy figure
emerges
from distant reeds.
We bow in greeting.

Before the muse returns,
conversation starts.
Always this way:
Propositioned.
Gaslighted into trysts
by uninvited eyes.

What neon sign
above me
pimping
carnal object?

I ask the time, the place.
Send them off.
Knowing
they have an inkling—
this isn't done
by me,
not this type of thing.

Wish I was home;
past Dover's Strait.
But where
is home
                really?

It will happen again.
All too soon;
wherever it is
I may go.