Of The Blessed Isles Poem by james watkin

Of The Blessed Isles



Air, rising out of the west
Is citrus-flavoured.
Hold to that compass bearing.
Now of sail, savoured.
Blent to what up-blew, anciently
But through all ages
Mid oceaned or mid nothing
For myth assuages.

Wednesday, May 13, 2020
Topic(s) of this poem: orange,scent,summer
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james watkin

james watkin

Melbourne Australia
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