Mike Bell/ June 6, 2016/ www.mikebellpoems.com/ 0 comments

Below the mussel-threaded outlet pipes,
with their spitting lips squeezed tight,

Wilf found a wine bottle,
beached in the low-tide sand;

on examination, without opening,
we concluded ‘a French red’,

with uncorking we sniffed it,
Wilf declared it: ‘A good vintage’,

but any booze, to any boy,
is the best he’s ever had.

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