On this day of flowers, the animals follow
The usual path of the sun
Ripples coagulate like blood,
All manner of things mirror our big brother sun

On this shining  Ἀρκαδία of August 1941.
Sweet airs fill the breezes
Forgotten summer scents,
O! The billowing of  intent
Reed and oak and beech
This beautiful canopy of the living green,
Shimmering in this too bright light.

Thunder clouds swarm
Rumble out of sight.
I climb this vertiginous cliff path,
Which connects the now and then,
See in all its chasmal beauty.
The brightest of stars
On the blackest of nights.

On this holyday  the crookedness of intent
Pedalled by politicians, priests and pundits
is an abomination, a defilement  and disgrace
That leaves the gates of heaven firmly closed
And the gates of hell a crowded place.

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