Water slaps the dock,
Gulls, circling, cry from afar,
A path leads up wood
Splintered stairs. Rusted metal
Teeth loom, now forever stilled.
Pass the star chamber
Where once music used to play,
A dried-up fountain.
Brambles have taken the paths
Through the forest, by the huts,
To a clock tower
Its face so caked by salt-spray
A rocket lies immoble,
Improbable organ mute.
The library stands
With moss growing up columns
Wood panels peeling
Within. Shelves are lined with dust,
Not books. Two black scorch-marks,
An old woman's grave:
There are too many ghosts here.
Once loved, abandoned,
The island sleeps. Butterflies
Hover over blue flowers.