Marina of teach

The torpor blue and hurtful of the nap
the garden burns to the sun. Smells like roses burned.
The sea sways,  between stationary garlands of flowers
with the brightness of the sunny waves. 

Domes yellow lights in the distance
from the city,  fantastic evenings,
jump, laugh, blink momentary reflections
of tiles,  of bronzes and of glass works. 

The water opens it's fresh fans of plants,
until the green rest of the silent leaves,
I in silence alone, a frigate,
white and spellbound, between the red rocks.