Meandering

Meandering The moon tonight looks like a golden gondola sailing on a black sea only casting anchor at dawn. I remember a gondola trip in Venice grey water, cabbage, onions and apple peels, I wished the gondolier had been quieter. I sailed across the Black Sea once, from Georgia To the Dardanelles, and sea was frosty white. We anchored just outside Istanbul waiting for clearance, small boats came sold us sweet wine and liqueurs. After an endless journey on an old ship we drank too much and got sick, but for a few hours we forgot about the poverty of our wretched life. An endless voyage to Reykjavik, Iceland, the sea around the island was dark blue. But the beer there was so insipid that we had no chance to forget our misery. Moon, it has no business looking like a gondola, it is a balloon. So bring in the empty horses; suave was David Niven you couldn’t see he was acting his socks off.