Saturday and finally the sun
by noon comes out to play his mandolin
breeze, strumming the heat on skin
into a burr of barred pleasure.
A hung-over melody runs over
from his whisky cup, forgetful rover
in occluding cloud, scratching rough chin
stubble, looking up to squint and grin.
As the sun returns the lines break in
brogue, unhurried declamation rolling:
the waves rising and the waves falling,
the cream-brown foam between,
a Bailey's dream.
..............................
*Not drinking (as yet - we'll see) but thinking about it and the coming
St Patrick's Day..
YOU ARE READING
February And Beyond
PoetryThis ark will take me through to springtime - 'the pretty pretty ring time'.
