In Café Napolita



Celtcroon – lamentous song
o’er pink ‘n lilac petals,
pressed in layered, longing,
floral, choral keen
on fiddle’s wake.

Tattooed timbre – tread beneath
the Gaelic-lillyed call,
your droning dirge converge-
nt ’bout her dark,
tress-fall’n hair.

Aehshia, abundant isle,
in Irish surf caressed…
By red-brick, Werburgh-wall
echoed e’er true’s
the valleyed-west.



Aft’ noon’s height,
with its sun-beat rays
arranged around these shadows,
is masked th’moon’s
cratered plight beyond
the wisp-white atmosphere.

In melody of
middle-east ‘n
north-African call –
the chant of
channeled spirit speaks;
the Aten, westward, falls.

Canvas: green.
The varnished wood waves, grainy.
Wound-wicker wraps its Thursday flowers.


Image credit –

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