Sunday, 26 April 2026
Penelope
She regards a shining sea,
each rolled wave a trip,
wonders about her feet,
will they ever feel love,
not knowing what to give,
strokes them like kid gloves,
bars fuel her sole conceit,
every song shakes her hips,
welcomes back how she feels,
brown wooden tubs,
their blond hearts stripped,
stand close to the pub,
when morning comes to greet,
she dresses and skips,
her own rhythm and beat,
says a prayer to up above,
paints her toes and lips,
thinks of turtle doves,
someone nice to kiss?
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