Beckons

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

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