Shoes unlaced, socks inside out, left on a car seat.
Trouser legs: one two: rolled up.
Prints in pairs press soft sand. Onshore the wind blows, steals a childlike chuckle, throws it over storm bashed garden walls.
Rain drives sidewards, cold as pebbles.
The café is open. Soup is waiting.

At night the moon crescent rests over clouds: the glimpsed belly of a genie.


  1. Me too. :) I feel like I always walk away with something lovely each time I stop by here. Merci Lisa.

  2. 'the glimpsed belly of a genie.'


  3. Thank you my lovely ladies! I wished for a nice restful day and got it: that's why the moon looked like a genie to me! Hope I've got the full three wishes :-) xx


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