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Notes06/30/2020
Floyd
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Floyd
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37
The Red Bay
In summer, when the sun leaves the coast and no one stays there any longer, the scents blossom between the rocks, a different world awakes in the bay. Turquoise, iridescent veils of speech bubbles drift over barren herbs, the lilac lavender breathes attentively and ethereally, wild clouds in evaporating eucalyptus tufts, and the little green mint hardly has a chance to speak.
And while the fennel begins to pull fine threads of a somewhat harsher sweetness into the fresh bustle, herbaceous rock roses candle the wild clouds somewhat softer, accompanying the flowery, earthy bass of the straw flowers of stony meadows.
Then thoughts of Werther's incense wander through the brownish hum of the bay, when day-roasted rosemary smells like the light on the rocks. Eucalyptus remembers once again the myrtle, sings soft lavender songs, the cliffs glow in herbal red, four-five hours, then everything falls asleep again.
(With thanks to killer bee)
And while the fennel begins to pull fine threads of a somewhat harsher sweetness into the fresh bustle, herbaceous rock roses candle the wild clouds somewhat softer, accompanying the flowery, earthy bass of the straw flowers of stony meadows.
Then thoughts of Werther's incense wander through the brownish hum of the bay, when day-roasted rosemary smells like the light on the rocks. Eucalyptus remembers once again the myrtle, sings soft lavender songs, the cliffs glow in herbal red, four-five hours, then everything falls asleep again.
(With thanks to killer bee)
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