Maladaptive Coping Behaviour

Abersoch, Wales 3:12 pm

I slip away from everyone at the B&B
and sneak down the beach road,
bare-foot with sandals in hand,
to the sand dunes for a sly cigarette.

I tuck myself in a cradle of long grass,
push my toes into the cool sand,
and light up. Savour the bite,
the burn, on my tongue. Exhale.

A spectre of smoke steals across the dunes
like a spooked fox - as grey as today.
Mist hangs low over the water,
the islands have faded into myth.

I take another drag. Keep telling myself
I'll quit when I'm ready - when this is all over.
For now I have found a sixth finger;
I'm grasping a fag more than a pen these days.

The poet swapped poetry for cigarettes.
(I am the first to admit that this was not a wise move.)
Now corroded to a stub, I crumple the brown body
into the sand at my side, its fire quickly extinguished.

Something tells me ours won't die this easily.