To find love

first you must seek the island

where the mandolins

throw tears into the spray

and the sand throbs with the foot beats

of a dancing sun.


To seek the island

you need a voyage,

a ship piloted by dolphins

echoing the notes

of the far off whale's song.

The voyage is difficult,

a music upon the wind,

knowing that once you knew

or thought you knew

where you were going,

had been there, slept

within those island groves

beyond the surf

and sands of powdered skeletons.


Old steamer writes slowly

upon the ink-dark sea,

wave to wave heaving

drunken along a sea-lane's


a mother's belly and your rebirth

Newly born under stars

you listen to the sailors' song

remembering nights of Ithaca,

imaginary women

and the bodies of sailors who float

eternally nine fathoms down.

Sometimes from passing ships

you may catch a glimpse of a waving hand.


These seas are full of signs,

sharks fin, flash plunge of diving bird.

In silent coves undisturbed insects

patrol the strand with each receding wave.


To find the island the journey is long.

There are always other islands

beyond the one you've reached,

white houses enticing from afar,

a quay, domed church, shrines among hills,

a monastery in which to die.


Remember; islands are persons

rooted in water, blossoming under sun.

Following signs you find your way.             

Only you can interpret the symbols,

can tell upon which wind the music comes.

Secretly I think that no-one

has ever found the island.

It is always beyond -

the bazooki is always calling

if you listen closely enough

to the wires.


I think

the point of it all

lies simply in the voyaging.

When you are travelling

at each island

always remember to dance.