The gust in the sky scatters timeworn gods,
vine shoots on the turbulent shelf of the sea,
when sulphurous lightning inscribes an X
in the ruby penumbras of signal fires.
Serried light no more defiles the peaks,
or the gem never given, or the crown of the tsar,
or the ribbon of purple on the minaret fixed,
onyx tempest or harrier’s eye in the hearth.
The flambant tunics of windblown gods
in a whisper of blood and gold on the rugs,
the prayer of the air for volatile gods:
a gong sounding out in the dolomite nights,
the sword thrust of light of stalactites
and a tumult of Sinbads in Turkesque robes.