My bus queue admirer died.
He was 90 and was lonely inside.
From Cyprus they’d fled
Without even a bed.
Now he’s been swept out on the tide.
The sea is a symbol of life.
Though unruly, it does have its tides.
Its regular rhythm
Soothes the ache in my bosom.
And on its back I long to ride.
The unknown has mysterious force
And speaks to us in its own voice.
If we attended
Our ills might be mended.
As it often indicates our real choice.
How my heart sings 