Isla

As if to anticipate me, the wind soothes the Lime, and Cypress trees, on hills beyond the Cliffs, an ambient light, seeps, says forget his lips, I drink green tea, aroused in stumbled fright, by a foam washed sea, surprised in my shift, supposedly young and bright, I still hear music shiver, his song one long apology, really more of a whine, stunted by apostrophe’s, mandolin strings drift, on futures with the tide, remnants of cargo ships, sing of love and sigh.