Beach of Crete: Golden brown pebbles in the blue crystal waters.

I know the secret, which haunts the stone. Who years before, tumbled from Demeter’s temple-ruin.

This is the land where the sparkling gold Was bottled by the poet, Amidst the ruins.

What stone keeps Is a memory Unlike ours, perhaps But no less true.

The great spirit holds time, solemnly, like Nature’s watch. Between two isles, statues sit, With gargoyle eyes.

Colossus, is the land Where in caves sit the old myths. Enchanted, with the heavy laden mossy fruits of time.

It is not like she would know, the Spanish grove Or the Gothic church-bell tolls: Rather, that she is within them; Rings out with a strange might That pierces the air.

Like one who is possessed with Time; Sings differently Upon each approach.