Peter Chapman Poetry

Plausible Shore

Beauty, how do you tell them?
Intelligence is a duty, not a protection.
Or, Not that way, use the back door.

Across the room, the incense burns,
its curl of sweet smoke finds me by the window,
watching the tide, ocean like cellophane,
clumps of seaweed lifting on the waves.

Funny how, as life goes by, you become expert
about your drink. Gin's not for the meek.

Find and ye shall seek.