The monstrous sapphire
            lies in her lavish dowry
Crowned by Casinos
set with Provençal
olives
and spears to the mistral

The prevalent Fair
draws idle tides
over volcanic privacies
frilled with the rouse and hush of drowsing foam

Jewelled on her Adriatic arm
Venice, sarcophagus of sighs
and ghostly merchandise,
Splinters on the opal angle of the sun
and dies to the Angelus
an over purpled peach
swarmed by the flies of dusk

From the green incline
of vengence
the Vesuvian vine
drips lucently
Lacrimae Christi
to drift     imperceptibly
with the lost sob of Shelley

Hewn in the Apuane
Carrara stands
as marble sentinel
beyond the blazing rust
of branches
roofing amphibian babies

as they rise
from the Ligurian gullies
Their polished thighs
armoured with aqueous ashes
of the tinselled sands.

Eve, with her basket, was
Deep in the bells and grass,
Wading in bells and grass
Up to her knees,
Picking a dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Down in the bells and grass
Under the trees.

Mute as a mouse in a
Corner the cobra lay,
Curled round a bough of the
Cinnamon tall….
Now to get even and
Humble proud heaven and
Now was the moment or
Never at all.

"Eva!" Each syllable
Light as a flower fell,
"Eva!" he whispered the
Wondering maid,
Soft as a bubble sung
Out of a linnet's lung,
Soft and most silverly
"Eva!" he said.

Picture that orchard sprite,
Eve, with her body white,
Supple and smooth to her
Slim finger tips,
Wondering, listening,
Listening, wondering,
Eve with a berry
Half-way to her lips.

Oh had our simple Eve
Seen through the make-believe!
Had she but known the
Pretender he was!
Out of the boughs he came,
Whispering still her name,
Tumbling in twenty rings
Into the grass.

Here was the strangest pair
In the world anywhere,
Eve in the bells and grass
Kneeling, and he
Telling his story low….
Singing birds saw them go
Down the dark path to
The Blasphemous Tree.

Oh what a chatter when
Titmouse and Jenny Wren
Saw him successful and
Taking his leave!
How the birds rated him,
How they all hated him!
How they all pitied
Poor motherless Eve!

Picture her crying
Outside in the lane,
Eve, with no dish of sweet
Berries and plums to eat,
Haunting the gate of the
Orchard in vain….
Picture the lewd delight
Under the hill to-night —
"Eva!" the toast goes round,
"Eva!" again.