The sun is over the yardarm;
My mused Goddess of poesy
Sitting like patience on a monument
Of Iris; Chrysaor yielding
Whilst I throw ones lot
Twisting in the wind of the
Rostrum of technology
Cutting my teeth on rainbow dreams of you.
Peace, hope, sincerity
In the twinkling of an eye
You have the edge on
As with serene conscience of you
I set fire to terracotta tears
A rough-hewn diamond
Needing an earfull
Lo! harkened death
Herald of the last supper.


Eleete j Muir.