A cold wind blew down the glass house, neat,
Northerly, a mortar of hard rain, compound sleet,
A coat of birdied cenotaph and gray succulents,
Freezing faces of stone gods. Broken Pan, stares
Through broken algae stained glass, green eyes
Of sappy lichen filled cells, glued like clams.
Towards the lily lake, grained in sugar icing,
Stiff water, lifted by muscled air, waves surrender,
Drifts in slow lava of current, flowing words,
Out of reaching fingers, to a rising cliff of foam,
Struggling dirt water, pulled to the weir, against
The will, the charging cascade sunk in the mud.
Small brown island, prisoner of season, silent,
Unbranded, untouched, linked to small boat,
Moored to the leafy shore by steeled stiff rope,
Heavy, tarred, one oared, wood finger soft, lousy,
Unanchored, it rows, day or night, light or dark,
Ghostly, free and drifting as it encircles the island.