Scintillae: the wave crests
To the islands' base line.
Shaken through fingers,
Future sand; and strangely shaken
Ground like jelly
As dust streams clear of the grey-streaked summit.
Far hulls cluster
On the brief horizon
Between the headlands.
Forested, rugged, the Turkish mountains -
Silver-crested, the turquoise sea-waves
Bring in the breath of offshore breezes
Over the stones where ghosts foregather
Under parasols of woven turquoise.
Ephemeral voices, faces, laughter
Foam, and faintly the great forefather
Groans, and twitches his fish-finned mantle .