Under the pier at Brighton
Under the pier at Brighton charcoal stumps infuse the Sea,
like tattoos that you burned into me.
And on four knuckles there is hate the other hand is love,
though the punch came late un-cushioned by a glove.
Then on your oft turned cheek the scar,
a mirrored memory wherever you are.
Under the pier at Brighton the waves came crushing fire,
from the rage of love though not the blackened pyre.