Postcard Day Ian Anderson

My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire:
Pale hand gripping my pen
Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions
Letting nine become ten
Two pink doves strut the shingles
Picking crumbs from the breakfast I saved
For you dear. and I wish you were here
On this postcard day

Focus on the fine indeterminate line
Where the sky meets the sea
Desperate midweek words, banal and absurd
Freely flow out of me
Well, I may be a hostage to summer
But I'm a hostage, not a slave
And I'm clear that I wish you were here

On this postcard day

Precious cargo of flotsam: mixed memories on an ocean tide
Swim madly with spice from the orient
On a mystery watery carpet ride
But with the sun going down, the wind goes around;
Blows them back out of mind

My eyes are white circles staring down past the point
Of my restless pen
While the ghosts of my youth all sworn to the truth
Call my name again
Two brown legs don't make a summer
But two brown arms couldn't keep me away
Well, my dear, I wish you were here
On this postcard day