The wind

[Charlesjoseph]

Carries its freight,
rattle and clang,
trails anchors into land.

Sea storms and poppies
greet an old sailor,
slopping early rise rum.

Flutters the skirt
of his Cancan tattoo,
spits out tobacco bits
rolled for his first brew.

Smoke blows complaints
in sheltered accommodation,
drinks to remember ( Drinks extract Maybee along those lines )
what he gave for our nation. (his Instead of ours)

hey keith,
Here's a few ideas
chazz