Where
ships sail into the lapis harbour
there
is a mirror of tranquility,
now ask
soothsayer, youthful destiny . . .
though
prophecy laps globe, tincture water.
Here dwells
no little black lamb: but brother
who in
bitterness deserts harmony—
yet
like a rhododendron, grows in peace
toward
the sun, with five petal daughters
fused
at a jewelled base in calyx green,
blotting
out the sun of sixth earth effaced,
poisoning
bees until they are toxin-
laced:
enlisted, they produce mad honey—
the
locals’ remedy—hallucinate—
a
hostess’s golden drops, so rich as sun.
W.E. Isaacson
