Slow surf traces
with luminous chalk
the seal-brown ledges.
From your fingers
waves of clear music.
Under a heaving surface
the bronze reefs.
What is the color of a name?
Bougainvillea pours vivid
over pale cliffs
the sun bursts like a balloon.
From the stone-blue horizon
of this sea I turn
I strain to see you
prince of your trees and lawns
of eastern green.
I hear the faraway cry
of your winter axe.