Bit Giddy with Little Gidding

[heliosphile]

 The brush of last week's verse wrote tomorrow I go back under the sea. Wrote that summer nights like these were not built for red wine. The heavy mud raked through teeth should have been best left to sleep in soil for sediments to wind back to some shores. There with the stories from the exchange of shells, I have smelt the Mediterranean salt and

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[anonymous]

The ship turned, and sailing in to the bay a voice could be heard, caressed through the wind. 'Ahoy', ahoy, ahoy!' the voice called, to a promenade empty of welcome grace.

And the hazel eyes burned in lust for the unforgiving face.