linger under the citrus sky
and listen to the gull who weeps
through the crevice of the cliff-face
see the streets cast in oil-light
and smell the fresh paint
slick on fishing boats
look into the slumbering face of the horizon
and hear the strains of a familiar song
as it circles the breeze
a distant drum-beat beckons
© 2019 Stellular Scribe
Stellular Scribe 