Beer comes in through the mouth
Like a kiss from a foamy jug.
My vessel travels south,
A tiny little tug.
I ferry down to the dales of Spain
From the chill of a Scottish port.
My mind is of a sailor’s sort,
Adventurous and far from plain.
I live aboard the Atlantic’s waves
Young and tasting sailors’ graves
In a boat which is rocked like a baby carriage
On the brine which speaks
Of frothy, white peaks-
Calling me to a Spanish marriage.
(Taken From A Lady Fair And Other Poems By John Zwerenz)visionarywanderings.com
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