Five Poems

Leod’s Dream

There was little feeling for an expedition.
The idea of the island was enough.
Breaking apart the hulls of their ships,

they warmed themselves by fireside,
eating what was left of the food
carried far from home. Then in a fit of foam

the island descended. Dragging
the garden to the dark of the sea.
Ideas do not float, they sink like pearls.

Cadahus, En son us. Sea birds bathe,
smoothing their feathers. You must
remember how awful it will be,

when the whole caste is fallen:
fish blood and fowl blood; the bird
bolted across the deep sea.
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