That night we were perfectly irrational,

your mother spoke like Rhea in an ancient

Greek tongue. We straddled the mighty
Norton five-hundred and joked of Marxist revolution.


She tightened her arms on the ascent.
Danger flurried down our spines and palms

began to sweat. At breakneck speed we whipped

round snaking grey meanders along the cliff edge.


Our compass set in lunar chatoyance

the stars were squinting feline lovers

as the night light washed upon her eyelids,

lashed with jagged stalactitic silhouettes.

We coasted down a sandy path; emerging from the hills

where the shepherds’ ruby grins were the nights hue.

Hearts cast in iron and minds sat on sand,
the sky snapped pink to blue, to navy dogtooth.


The spider grass on the dunes, the mirage

of twisting dancers and sand storm pirouettes.

Full beams off, we’d blink and stand amazed,

that very trace of privacy at night


which leaves you dazed, for unlike the crowded

light of day which knows no heart nor wonderment

moonlight dances on the pier, and bounces off the waves.

My first born son who parts the fog and clouds


to carry primal thunder; I gift to you,

the joy of life, and beauty of the oceans wealth.

The sand will bed and water cleanse,

the tide will carry and coral mend.


Until you, La Pedarosa of the floating world,

may sail over those who tell of any boat

you cannot sink and any fleet you cannot fell.