Delos

For Diana Gould On charts they fall like lace, Islands consuming in a sea Born dense with its own blue: And like repairing mirrors holding up Small towns and trees and rivers To the still air, the lovely air: From the clear side of springing Time, In clement places where the windmills ride, Turning over grey springs in Mykonos, In shadows with a gesture of content. The statues of the dead here Embark on sunlight, sealed Each in her model with the sightless eyes: The modest stones of Greeks, Who gravely interrupted death by pleasure. And in harbours softly fallen The liver-coloured sails - Sharp-featured brigantines with eyes - Ride in reception so like women: The pathetic faculty of girls To register and utter desire In the arms of men upon the new-mown waters, Follow the wind, with their long shining keels Aimed across Delos at a star.