The clouds were so strange that day

spilt powder over duck-egg veneer

a clandestine pincer and loose, flaking bough.

the hour the clocks stopped,

and the sea, through fence and fig-grove

breathed one last heavy overture,

(and there was much waving, and there

was solemn prayer, and repeat)

the shadows moved as warning signs

over verdant emerald mesh.

There I looked in the mirror of a well,

and saw the butterflies preen,

too heavy with sun to lift my gaze

to see your smile break time for me,

the gulls stole,

it from you first.

Their sorry, bone-breaking cries,

a ghostly echo

of a spring revolution.