Her eyes are the lighthouse of the Pharos,
Alexandrian, bronze-mirrored fire flung round
The gloaming coastal sorrow like sand-glittered spears.

Her praying mantis limbs of light,
Sever-poised for needlepoint strike
At the jeweled glint of wings in dim, rare-seen limits,
Now one with her rasping sea of scarab beetle husks.

Do you hear the old gods singing?
Through marble bones
And filtered sunlight
Their semblance,
Cold and undying
Painstakingly chiseled
And forced into placidity.
Yet still they sing.

the hawthorn lays down its ghosts, thick
with dulling pink; the stream quivers,

its blue shadows sunken, gleaming,
at low ebb, breathing like a mirror

in the sun. beneath the trees it
is dream-like, cool, dark and

magical, the leaves little harbours
of breeze, voiceless, white as bone.

How beauty is admired through a rose,
The scent so sweet, so perfect, so pure as her soul,
How it blooms from the spring winds that pass,
A little waltz has performed again perhaps.

Oh how the gentle breeze that surrounds and flows,
The day is lovely, so grand for a little stroll,
The garden with bountiful flowers that grow,
Spring has returned as they felt it row upon row.

The warm day is great as the flow of cool air,
Greeting spring again with loving arms and care,
How we miss the times that you were once here,
Throughout the seasons we could no longer bare.

Yet as time flies you will leave soon,
As the day sets and ends arise a bright moon,
We will treasure the moments, the joy you left by,
Until another visit, we Will be patient, farewell and goodbye.