Trapped South of Lisbon

The moon lay on it’s back
Pretending it had decided
To only rest a moment
But it had been asleep
for hours by that stage.
And my mind wandered
In the direction of a pair
Of thinly cardiganed arms
And a lap in which to lay my head
and close some heavy eyes.

My ears lapped up
The collapse of waves
In the distance,
Nostrils sniffing up
The scent of wood fires,
like a hazy gauze,
sweet and wet and smoky.

And as if by accident,
I began to dream.


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