Anatolian Dreams
“Go and catch a falling star.”
(John Donne)
St Barbara, a poor white gloved icy ingénue,
Has long been a dusty piece of Black Forest wood
That grew out of the ashes of Sibylline books;
The black stone is gone from the Palatine --
Only infinitesimal phantasmagoria of the sea
Dwells deep within the grave mound of the soul
Whilst carrying a torch clothed with the sun;
Nikola Tesla still feeds a pigeon every day --
It’s an aperiodic dolphin atavism.
Awakened by an unknown lyre,
Such things drink virtue from a moon beam;
Only Saturn, the herald of lavender hope,
Silently watches the humble bird
From the depths of our star-drenched earth.
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