a tenby evening in august
mud weeded the drying boats
heads cocked at all angles
listening to the tales of the sea
under the warm murmur of the town
it’s long streets harbour chained and warm
the gulls eeking out their supper’s shadow
from a moon rising over the bandstand
where lovers sigh deep in darkling time
whispering nothing that could forestall
the ebbing to sleep of a rare memory
that once laid down in the always way
will kiss when the clock strikes one
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