for Edward Baugh

Flashing silk phantoms 
from the promontory,   
when seen at dark   
rushing to their beds, 
those lights corroding 
over Navy Island, 
never grow old.   
In two enamel basins, 
fill water to wash overripe 
stars, eaten without 
second guess, worm 
and all, from veranda 
chairs, where no guilt 
brims over, whatsoever.  
As frost, unknown, intimate 
breath bursts hot its kind 
silence. Get up, go greet 
Errol Flynn’s ghost 
at the empty footbridge, 
leaning on the breeze. 
Maroons hum out 
of hills, restless as 
unappeased trees, 
ringing, 
“Even days coming 
are already gone 
too soon,” then return 
before the river’s lustre 
hides their voices 
and immeasurable 
slow leaves bring 
down our morning.