FOR DAVID P—B
 
The eye follows, the land
Slips upward, creases down, forms  
The gentle buttocks of a young  
Giant. In the nestle,
Old adobe bricks, washed of  
Whiteness, paled to umber,
Await another century.
 
 
Star Jasmine and old vines
Lay claim upon the ghosted land,  
Then quiet pools whisper  
Private childhood secrets.
 
 
Flush on inner cottage walls  
Antiquitous faces,
Used to the gelid breath
Of old manors, glare disdainfully  
Over breached time.
 
 
Around and through these  
Cold phantasmatalities,  
He walks, insisting
To the languid air,
Activity, music,
A generosity of graces.
 
 
His lupin fields spurn old
Deceit and agile poppies dance
In golden riot.   Each day is
Fulminant, exploding brightly  
Under the gaze of his exquisite  
Sires, frozen in the famed paint  
Of dead masters. Audacious  
Sunlight casts defiance
At their feet.

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