Missy

Miss.png

Her skin is fair, lightly freckled and starkly
contrasts her ambiguous demeanour.
I always tip my cap, ‘Good day, Miss,’
but she never casts a glance.
I carry on my way, meandering
deep in wild thoughts that are always
honeysuckle, blue grass, rosehips
and my Miss.
The sun beats down on she and us,
but when my Miss smiles, the heavens open
and it pours, dare I say, it rains tears.
My thinking is, it can not compete
with the lovely lady who does not care
if I live or die, because I know us to be just
a part of my wildest dreams –
the place I go to swiftly as I pass
the dingy, rusted via duct
on my way to work –
I pass that way often, my dreams,
so as not to be seduced by the muggy
waters of brown stench lying along my trail.
Deep down, I think it may just take time.
Today, anyway, I saw a glimmer,
a near warming at the corners of her mouth,
but it could have been the damp, or
maybe, just maybe, as she meanders
to her dress shop,
bypassing her own thoughts and dreams, she is
smiling as she thinks of me.
Maybe.
But, ah, I hear the whistle. Time for work.
Until tomorrow then, Miss.

Honeycomb

honeycomb.png

Thank you, The Photo Nomad for the picture.

A sticky, ushering sunset frames the silhouettes
of men and boys, cloaking their exhausted
and hungry bodies.  Shirts hang limply
from their worn hands – dragging
the rich golden sand at their bare feet –
collecting shells and copious fragments of life
washed up and forgotten onto the
grains of twinkling gold that speckle the
the rich shoreline.
Viscose awnings plied to strong timber arms
still billow wearily in the dying winds –
nets and gossamer strands drape
the spears of stilled masts triumphant stakes
away in the shallow distance.
Wading ankle deep in idle chatter,
tired eyes squint to admire the hushed glow
of twilight colours on a dusty, hazy day;
though muted and subdued they herald the dreams
to follow amid the quiet of the sea breeze’s bronze air.

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