Marble made of seagulls’ wings, set in flight,
Their beaks foam and crest and rise for air,
In headwinds and feathered drag, upward lift,
Carve out fluted columns by tunneling vortex,
Beams of bluebirds made from cross-sky stitch,
Parthenon of flying tides and nested Acropolis,
Endless fossilized sigh of Saronic Gulf sea-winds.

The fallen leaves are the shrouds of hoof prints,
The withers of breeze reined to time-kept trysts,
Gentilissimo, Cavalieri di Corredo, Italian knight
Whose path by pure lover’s look is made clean.

We go back, we go back to the sun caught by handfuls,
Like the Medieval snow melts into Grecian stream.

Gentle knight, to your galloping song of Winter:
The sweeping rush of grass and gathering refrain
Of bells surrounds the long sloping meadow of
The muzzle, snorting freedoms of wildflowers past,
Leaving its bosky thunderbrush of tail like distant
Summer storms and the slackening rhythms of rain.

We go back, we go back to the sun caught by handfuls,
Like the Medieval snow melts into Grecian stream.

The volplaning bird plucks from fish-eyed shallows,
A gargoyle perches on an ***** key, ever sustaining,
A woman plays the lute from man’s hollowed rib,
As the priests with sophistry sweep the dust off sin.

We go back, we go back to the sun caught by handfuls,
Like the Medieval snow melts into Grecian stream.
But the clock cannot turn its face from its tears.

the star of the star of the morning
is restful and tranquil and free

the star of the star of the evening
blossoms dark as a shadowy tree,


the waves drive out far in their rivers
as blue as a star in the sky,

and the darkness relents for her shivers
must finally die.


waves turning and burning and dancing
clouds wandering e'er ever on

and the darkness that finds the new morning,
as cold as stark night's bitter song,


oh, brother who wept for my sisters
no tears as alive as their breath

swept out where the wild sea blisters
and pain knows of death.


wild whispers, wild birds and the fury
of waves that sing out to the clouds

the death then of life that we bury
laid out in the whitest of shrouds


the sea, oh, the sea, how she sings me
a song of a dance never sung

and her rhythms soon calm and placate me
her bell solemn rung.


and sweet love is the journey i strive for
as blue as a mysterious sea

and the love is a fruit full of succour,
and the moment will live e'er free,


you stand tragic as a painting so mournful
alone as a poet who rests,

and the lull of the storms here at night fall
the sea's treasure chests.


the day wraps the night in her roses
and night wraps the day in her sight

and midnight's soft moonlight supposes
that day is a journey e'er bright,


and love was a love still forever
and love had no rose in her bower

for the floor of the sea like a feather
the most delicate flower.

the clouds white as white at their edges,
the moon like a gem set in cloud,

the cliffs with the birds on their ledges,
far away where the weary waves bowed,


love strong of wild heart and compassion,
love decent and as gorgeous as mist

that blooms like the waves full of passion
or like lovers that kissed.


dark sky, dark delight and an ocean,
that rushes to the coast on a wave,

dark blossom of the night like a potion,
love always romantic and brave,


gold star loved like the soft song of e’ven
gold star lighting up the night sky,

the night lit as pretty as heaven,
or juliette’s  sigh.


our love once won and then sadly forgotten,
that died in cold februarys frost,

not given time to enjoy the new blossom,
of spring’s pretty blooms quickly  lost,


yet love mourned forever for losing,
a heart like a dragon once slain,

all the passion, the heart-ache, the yearning,
washed out in the rain.

the sun sings its swan song at ev’en,
falls low like a fortress of fire,

destroyed by a kingdom believed in,
by an army whose feet never tire;


and the sea calls out loud like an egyptian,
her pyramids built out of sand,

her headdress the skies sweet inscription
the cloud’s dark dreamland.


and love is the song that the wave sings,
as the ghosts of the sea start to rest,

and they crash with the chill that the night brings
like a book where a  flower was pressed,


and the waves bloom and die like spring blossom,
sing a song as eternal as cloud,

sing of life, sing of death at her *****,
the sea foam her shroud.

the meadows are filled with wild flowers,
the sky holds the warrior bird,

the rain with her solitary showers,
the moon’s with her pathway all curved,


delight of the sky and the highway,
as dissonant as a dark minor key,

oh, sea, of desire walks her causeway,
from you unto me.  


the moon glitters like an old sovereign,
conjures magics as sweet as the sea,

a song ne’er remembered but forgotten,
in the vaults of our lost memories,


the stars shine like miniature lanterns,
more of lamplight than this pretty night,    

shining clear in their old archaic patterns,
both cheerful and bright.


and the dark speaks out loud to her brother
sings of cloud bursts and moonlight and rain,

and the ghosts of her once ancient mother,
tells us life flows like blood in the vein,


the frosty dark sky with her night ****,
sings of freedom and knows not of slaves,

while the sea as it brims to the far shore,
all filmy, white waves.


oh, darkness, oh, sister, remember,
the fight for the shore is ne’er won,

from  january through to december,
while the wilderness sings to the sun,


the dark has known only of winter,
her battlements rise to the sky,

wait forever for the first songs of summer,
that blossom then die.


for daylight arrives with its flurry,
of bird song and sunlight at dawn,

while the ceaseless, relentless waves scurry,
draw in close with their breath of the morn,


no death could e’er be imagined,
of a sea as eternal as air,

that the scampering wind swiftly maddened,
where the wild rafters swear.


the grasses blow flat on the wetlands,
where the puddles lie hoary and grey,

and the heron sweeps up to the headland
with its wings full of the glory of day,


the wildflowers bud in the meadows,
thick purples and bronzes and golds,

poppies red as the rust of a wild rose,
rufescent and bold.