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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
All rights reserved

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