White horses

Her
lips crash against me
in her great sea
I am small fry.

and the trickle of sand
becomes
like rains from her hand
a deluge in this land
of the parched.

A sign,
beware there be dragon,
makes me get a move on
as she makes her move on
me
and her lips crash against mine
just like the last time.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.