Leaves are plucked
And sown like dust, light and free,
The colour of cinnamon,
Hazel and cherry,
Sprinkled were the water laps,
Smooth and blue,
Against the setting sun.
A sky aflame, bloodshot,
Clouds blushing scarlet overhead,
Dyeing the island and its long, lost city,
The colour of wine.
His hair grows fierce like the sun;
Fallen leaves press upon his skin
Turning pale like the sand.