Bristol Dock

Sifted foam floating at the quay,
Crow call sitting in bare memories of autumn,
Thick tobacco saunters across my face,
I walk, to the sound of bustling life, to the Jazz sax joy,
Through creative marts, Unblemished by modern greed,
Water spray, arabica scents of continental caffè mornings,
With fountain calm surround by cream coloured pave,
Buskers sing under warm solar radiance,
My hair flecks unto the breeze.

Ian V. Seymour ©2012

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