"... when the morning was carried away by the wings of the angel of the night..."
To the memory of Malcolm Lowry
Is
an island not a destiny,
even
the seagulls know,
they
forebode the shipwreck
in
the scent of the autumn
and
the wet branches.
The
night wind whispers
when
the morning was carried away
by
the wings of the angel of the night *
towards
the gray solitude at the beach
and
the lighthouse over the crisped waves
with
a white distant persistence **
and
the sun and wind danced through ***
the
drunken breath of the poet,
who
went down deep
to
engrave letter by letter
an
unanchored volcano with his words ****
at
the third attempt was resurrected in a novel.
The
same to leave the last possible eden
-nostalgia
for delirium?… or oblivion- *****
to
explore every corner of the purgatory
dark
as the grave wherein my friend is laid
in
this outlandish spot of dead civilizations. ******
Certainty
of brightness, promise of lightness *******
walk
along the beach
of Gabriola
albeit
only an island, not a destiny.
Jules Etienne
* From Under the Volcano, page 223
** From October Ferry to Gabriola, page 4
*** From Ultramarine, page 82
**** From October Ferry to Gabriola, page 4
***** From Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend, page 3
****** From Dark as the Grave Wherein My Friend, page 212
******* From Under the Volcano, page 129
The photo is a sunrise at Whalebone Beach, in Gabriola Island.
