The romantic poet



The evening light was dusty
the poet wrote, and he continued
saying the dust-covered roses.
was like a silk scarf flung around
a woman's shoulder.
Over this, the moon shone brightly.
He walked along the beach got wet feet
but admired how dunes dances
with the incoming waves.
Then a big white-topped roller hit
the shore he got soaking wet.
He sought refuge in an old cafe that had
a proper fire-crate, and with a glass of
red wine in his hand continued to write
about roses and a silk scarf, the sea
did not interest him.