by Byron Beynon
The submerged, latent cathedral of Breton
Ys emerges ghostly from
the glassy trenches of the sea,
the rush of foam blinks
with frothy tongues of weed,
a primal force
restless and ill at ease.
Glaze of moon,
glare of vertigo sun,
the shifting, drowned elements
transform the eddying
masonry of pillars,
distorted windows and gothic
arches assimilating heights and depths
known to humankind
in globes of phosphorescent light.
The flame of Debussy's music
like a cypress tree
probes and kindles
the earthly air,
consumes the lighted vase of life
before a strident tempo is heard
as unanswered questions
drift uncomfortably
towards a quivering
territory of fragile beauty.
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