Tread softly, for here you stand
On miracle ground, boy.
A breath would cloud this water of glass,
Honey, bush, berry and swallow.
This rock is then more pastoral, than
Arcadia is, Illyria was.
Here the cold spring lits on sand.
The temperature of the toad
Swallowing under a stone whispers: 'Diamonds,
Boy, diamonds, and juice of minerals!'
Be a saint here, dig for foxes, and water,
Mere water springs in the bones of the hands.
Turn from the earth of the hero. Think:
Other men have their emblems, I this:
The hearts dark anvil and the crucifix
Are one, have hammered and shall hammer
A nail of flesh, me to an island cross,
Where the kestrel's arrow falls only,
The green sea licks.
Lawrence Durrell, Selected Poems, Peter Porter (ed.), Faber & Faber, 2006
On miracle ground, boy.
A breath would cloud this water of glass,
Honey, bush, berry and swallow.
This rock is then more pastoral, than
Arcadia is, Illyria was.
Here the cold spring lits on sand.
The temperature of the toad
Swallowing under a stone whispers: 'Diamonds,
Boy, diamonds, and juice of minerals!'
Be a saint here, dig for foxes, and water,
Mere water springs in the bones of the hands.
Turn from the earth of the hero. Think:
Other men have their emblems, I this:
The hearts dark anvil and the crucifix
Are one, have hammered and shall hammer
A nail of flesh, me to an island cross,
Where the kestrel's arrow falls only,
The green sea licks.
Lawrence Durrell, Selected Poems, Peter Porter (ed.), Faber & Faber, 2006
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