By Richard Mather
Morning the priest is about as the waves make their way to the shore
and yet there is always the cry the old god wants to live.
As well as broken pines, like sleeping cupids, blind as sin
the waters have dried up. Likewise, the lines are touching amorously,
rubbing themselves against the rolling blood. A vigilant messiness,
or words similar to that, all astir in the fisheries of mystic rocks,
not very practical. But she had washed off the red paint,
the distances of green, yellow autumns, grey winds. He sits,
like a sultan, barrels of beef moulding in the salty sun. Such odours
assail the poet as he creeps across the night, over the sandbanks,
into the surrounding waters. And forgetful of his prophetic soul,
such musings turn out to be nothing more than shadows,
like the imitation of a dummy horse, with its back turned towards this,
our long-seasoned eternal craft, caressed by the sea’s kiss.
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