The Number Ninety-three

It's dusk, and time to catch the bus,
the number ninety-three,
that carries us from Slapton Sands,
and inland from the sea.
The only folk left on the beach
are fishing from a shelter,
lit by Start Point lighthouse.

Like a giant helter-skelter,
it's standing proud of dangerous rocks,
a tall black silhouette;
watch and count the pattern
of the flashes. Don't forget
to spare a thought for fishermen
who spend all night at sea,
far from land and the cosy lights
of the number ninety-three.

poem © Celia Warren 2011