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…is our sort of place – an island only
at spring tides. Sant Dwynwen, patroness
of lovers, was a princess, virgin, nun.
Her true love test required fresh bread crumbs,
a linen kerchief, a well, an eel
– and an optimistic lad and lass.
The saint’s shrine was popular until
the Puritan heave-ho – although, even now,
perhaps, in the earliest of summer’s dawns
or when mists rise or by full moonlight
some lovers will come to find the well.

Beyond the lighthouse, the cormorants and
distant rocks, beyond the edge of Ireland, passed
the Azores and the Sargasso Sea – where
eels breed and die – beyond the far Antilles,
the Atlantic and the Amazon embrace.




© Copyright David Selzer
2 Responses
  • Hugh Powell
    March 1, 2016

    From the deliberately domestic …..’our sort of place’…. to the mighty embrace of Atlantic and Amazon, this is a marvelous love poem. And to be able to get two words in the second stanza with the first and last letters of the alphabet in, as well! Truly an A-Z of love.

  • Mary Clark
    March 6, 2016

    Like the ‘where the eels breed and die’ and all of last two lines.

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