The Hotel 1829

For An Painter

Dusk—and the shimmer on the sea
has quickened and gone still. The large,
lithe Hurricane birds soar in circles
beyond the bay, and filmy flamboyants
stand on the green embankment wavering.

A goat saunters in the street. Its eyes
gleam in the headlamps like amber
held up to the moon. Curious,
seeming not to see, they remain
in the afterwards. She finds them
in the wine, the bright crystal at her place.

The glitter on the fog is rain;
the rainy reach, the long beach curves
out on the gloss, the vault of lights.
She sees oysters shining in their shells.
Her hand on the bard linen, in candlelight,
                                          expresses her.