Corker’s sweven

Bottled

And tossed asea

Bobs and bows

Until a tide

Afar

Or near

Decides the swing

Of no waiting

May be where

Another yearned

For a sign

Or note

Before

They left

To walk the beach

Because hope

Can ever

Comortably

Sit and stare

Until

A heart in sync

With dreamer’s drink

Steps about

Beach’s route

Upon which

Souls’ felt wish

Will be found. ; )

Hold a second before you come too close

As past here is pasture half foliose,

Topped with petaled pleasances that suppose

Sunny shades will ameliorate woes,

Even if springtime scents incite nose blows.

So, as long as you forsake scythes and hoes,

Welcome to where poems’ begins end prose. ; )