arm in arm with a woman:
ships that pass in the night.
She spills her glass of vodka and orange
cursing into the salty, sultry air
and swaying like a tulip in the wind
as I stroke her golden hair
and peer into intoxicated eyes,
a drunken romance doomed to fail
as transient as summer hail.
Midnight on Minehead beach
two lighthouses hypnotically flicker
brighter than any dead star,
the water's edge a smooth silver mirror
and the sea painted green and orange
from the lights of sedate Minehead.
I stare at distant illuminated shores
then peer into intoxicated eyes,
a drunken romance doomed to fail
as transient as summer hail.