epynean newsletter

we speak of rhythmic footwork in clogs of eucalypt
of the sailors that circle
of roundels charged with several tinctures
of the kanak sounding, low and haunting, deep in the orange grove

of vert, and of ore

of the swell of oranges and the scents in treaded shadows

of our circular dance of remembrance
in which the sailors, introspective, partake –

we speak of unison, the epynean,
silent, softly resounding, the hidden voice existing from the first –

warm evenings in the shadows of hills
on which these earnest sailors
have hoisted thrice by means of ropes of twisted vines
tokens hewn to us –

roughmade reminders of our visits
silent demonstrations of our blackened blood –

paradoxical groundlessness from which we spring, red now at throat

heraldic gules like butterflies resplendent
revealing, suddenly, their wingcolours –