PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Woven of finest silk, and shipped from Cos;
translucent, sheer (except the heels and toes
opaque), with ribbons snugly on your thighs
bound, your new stockings draw from Iolair sighs
of adolescent pleasure and desire.
Ten years ago,when pharisees and priests
cast stones on Stephen to the very death
(not pausing in their rage to take a breath,
but gnashing him, their teeth like frenzied beasts'),
your father, you, and some few servants sailed
to Avalon, and this shorefront estate
(built by your step-grandfather) and the docks
around this natural harbor where, once, rocks
abounded. Now, your father's ships sail in
with traded goods, and then out again
to Kernow, to pick up a load of tin

for Ostia; then back across the sea.

So far away, the priests cannot conspire
against your father and the faith you share
with him and have told others, like Iolair:

this island is beyond their perfidy.
Here, Love and fellowship's joy have prevailed
against the persecutors' vain conceit
(although none are beyond the Gospel's reach).
Now Iolair watches you walking the beach,
so near the vantage point he likes to stand
on; as the tide recedes, the wave-wet sand
is damp beneath your eager, stockinged feet.