At dusk 


evening pulls its’ drawstring around us

and the moon pulls on the sails of ships,

can you smell salt on  breezes which twine around those slender twigs

outside our windows?

the arch grows plump with dusky biscuits next to the white picket fence

and small leaves clamber 

for stories from windy knapsacks

and the rest 

i suppose 

is better left unsaid…

hush fills the hollows of the beach

in the morning we will look for sunlit honey on berry bushes

 

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