What, I write songs too? Part XVII

Watching the sun go down
Behind the waves that bathe this town.
A pelican wings its way.
Past the rocks to the ending day.

Autumn chills, and people pass.
Burbling shore and the feel of grass.
Golden fringe round deepest blue.
I still don’t know what to do.

Seagulls float against the breeze,
Strokes of black on this tapestry.
A gift from God for weary eyes,
Gorgeous Southern, Southern sky.

Laughing dogs and barking men,
Down the path and back again.
Irish lilts on Aussie tongues,
Smiling bright at what I’ve sung

Winter looms; a cold wind bites.
Rising black with the Easter night.
Harbour lights begin to glow.
I just don’t know where to go.

It’s too cold, but I won’t leave,
Rooted thick in this magic weave.
Foaming crests lap soft goodbye.
Rippling softly with a sigh.

Raindrops sound a foreign poem.
Warm within a foreign home.
Cuban meal and German cake.
Fill the void a nomad makes.

Summer beckons from the rising sun,
Far away from this gentle hum.
Wreathed in steam of Earl Grey tea.
I still don’t know who to see.

It’s too quiet to go to sleep,
Lost within this reverie.
Silent bats flit shyly by.
I’ll go with them, soaring high.

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