…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.




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  1. #1 by Hugh Powell - March 1st, 2016 at 14:17

    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.

  2. #2 by Mary Clark - March 6th, 2016 at 04:23

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

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