Tuesday, 6 September 2011
Towards old Lizard Head
This May morning,
Through the tamarisk tunnel in Pistol Meadow,
A nightingale skulks in honeysuckle
While painted ladies flirt among wild thyme.
Below, turquoise and purple waves, wind-ruffled,
Fringe granite rocks with snowy spume,
Evoking shadows: a bitter night,
Two hundred bodies, drowned, laid out-
Stray dogs did their worst.
This May morning
Even the ghosts are smiling.
© Gill Dunstan
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