It has been decided
this night shall be in honour of
plum wine and blue hills and yellow skies
and a poem
no one will ever read.
This is not that poem.
That poem I ripped from my book
as drunk I lay amidst
the sand and the stars
I threw it to the three winds
(the fourth being absent this night)
and for good measure
I followed this with the plum wine
still half full
(the rum had long been drunk).
I heard it plump in the sand
and I muttered
For the gods, then
and stumbled back to my bed.
The blue hills
and yellow skies
had gone anyway.
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