Cold islands entice me, like carved stone cathedrals. Their single mountains are the Exalted white saviours of our continent. Fallen devils in winter. Go South, where long archipelagoes Follow the land's evolution, Isles like shed, splintered tails in the sea, Giant's vertebrae planted for war. This is a horizon smudged by storm and salt. The furnace of tropical islands evokes other memories. Wild orchids swaying slowly. Heavy, fragrant, ocean-scented fruit. Taut sails in emerald twilight. The purge and bloodbath of sunset. Yet the old whale tooth amulet, and the bright scarlet flower of the flame tree Are essentially one. Only latitudes change. Looked for on the horizon, Islands lodge in sleep, conceive myths, Are emeralds in all the world's languages.
Robert James Berry