From a golden staircase — among the silken cords
on gauze of grey, plush velvets lush as greensward,
discs of crystal blackening like bronze when struck
by noon — I see the foxglove open on a ruck
of carpet wrought with silver filigree of eyes
and tresses. Pieces of yellow gold strewn slantwise
over agate, tall piers of pernambuco wood
supporting domes of emerald in the interlude
of bouquets of white satin sporting on ruby sprays,
surround the water-rose’s delicate display.
And like a god with huge blue eyes and arms of snow
the sea and sky pull towards the marble terraces
great crowds of white roses rising in crescendo
as forever young forever strong they grow and grow.