Attention

It is a super-yacht marina

Harbour Moon is berthed here

The Triasmapi company

Continually ferry to Formentera

How could he not

Have an iced Martini

Or a line of cocaine

Or something surely stronger

Yet there is no sign of a party

Nor of lunch being taken

In fact all is still, except

Another ferry departs

I remember Puerto Buenos

A Russian oligarch, and an 

American, who made Kennedy’s

Wife into Jackie Onassis

They were as if in competition

Pulling in alongside each other

For the spit, for the polish, for the obsessions

To be fastidiously applied

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Olden

In the cathedral

Of the castle

In old Ibiza town

With San Juan Pablo

Or Saint John Peter

To you, to me

A happy looking chap

With a rod, with a wave

Wearing a golden gown

His place built by cheap labour

Slaves most likely

According to my friend

Who I must say is not one

To give good grace to the church

In any circumstances

And after climbing all those steps

Struggling up those steep cobbled inclines

There is little or no chance of forgiveness

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Environmental

Almost all alone now

The inner pool, the warm zone

Mine; all to my self

Yet not for too too long

For the steam room calls

Then the aromatic shower

Before to go outside

Lay on the sun-bed

Sip ice-cold water

Alone now

In the courtyard

With the olive tree

Which must be so so old

Judging by its trunk detail

Also by the mass of its girth

Myth, or mass, or mirth

Are all then that’s left

Of the final test of the mind’s body

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Distortion

Acceptance

Does not do it justice

There is way more

Interaction

Decay

Might have been

A better match

As in a fading passion

Yet unspeakable

Muse as mute

Sealed lips

Lips sealed

Therefore acceptance

Has no choice

Other than

To be accepted

Yet decay

Was only

A beginning, a beginning

In search of an end

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Innocence

Blue, blue sky

Lime green

Pine needles

Painted toenails

Ankle bracelet

No more than a g-string

A fence line to the woods

What would you want

With us in the woods

A sparrow, or let’s say

Its Ibizan equal

Sits on the wire

I am thirteen again

When to play in the woods

Was to play in the woods

No more to it than that

No hidden inventive

No subterfuge of any kind

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