On the Island
The number of familiar forms
declines: the shepherd on a rock
is not a man, but memory
ossified. Eudoxia fills her flasks
more seldom at the spring - her legs
resent the thorny, stony journey.
Blue as wild iris blooms the tough-
stemmed rosemary, crowding pebbled
pathways and white terraces
at "Marianthi".
The north wind thunders in the sea-
caverns and hidden crannies, croons
in clefts and rock-chimneys in tongues
I cannot speak or name, separating
syllables, annihilating phrase
and speech; reintegrating sound
as threnody; translating thyme and thorn
and wild anemone to stone and snail,
gathering the random notes of bells
in chains of melody.
I hear it humming in the eaves,
a siren-voice, a spirit merely,
pausing to catch its breath,
then moving on, composing freely.
North Wind
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103031900117
Свидетельство о публикации №103031900117
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