Some like iridescent peaks
as daylight fades through fondant veils
of rose and peach
and alphorns and laryngeal arpeggios
echo in the feudal valleys
and summon sprites from peepholes
to the land of fairytales.
Here, scarlet toadstools spring,
edelweiss, blue gentian and alpen-rose,
and cowbells clank their altitude
in misty, leather-bonded notes,
Habsburgs, long forgotten, and life itself
Zwingli, a faded legend,
and Rome's hard-pinching shoes.
And some seek empty, bone-bleached skies,
inlets where Mother Earth nurtures
swan-chicks and grebes,
and stately reeds and velour rush
stand sentinel about the shell-cooped
brood corralled beneath a snowy pen,
rapt in harmony with nature.
The grebe pilots her zebraed sprigs;
their lesser vectors print the nursery tide,
estuary-bound, where billows buffet,
and rasped hulks of fishing boats
careen upon the pebbled shore
beneath tufted dunes, sea-kale and holly,
and those beribboned rockpools
in which hermit crabs reside.
But many seek exotic climes,
where zephyrs kiss sun-burnished skin
and agitation fades.
All that was is gone, a broken, fretful dream.
And why was it, and where was it?
Where did it go, usurper of content?
For this is surely Paradise, as meant.
Light-cut aquamarine floats in,
promise glints in silken sand,
palms whisper healing incantations.
All is divine fruition, slaked thirst, bounty:
elemental memory plumbs deep,
when lung and limb came up for air
and strove through fecund loam
to cognitive reflection.