I

...

Hare Island

where Romanovs rest

with exquisite chandeliers –

azure-enamel-bodiced,

Waterford-skirted.

...

Josiah walls,

Jasperware scalloped and stuccoed.

Palm fronds cross swords,

scriptural verification in guiltless gilt,

resurrection is a serious business –yes?

...

But excuse my asscerbic tongue

trotting off like that, braying.

I am sometimes prompted

by mischievous Satire or perhaps,

Bombast.  In any case,

despite my Everyhuman sympathies,

my rarely requited love of Art

cannot rightly resist

a peacock-show of shiver-tail passion.

Love must raise herself up

on ecstatic tiptoe,

tongue-kiss flirtatious, gorgeous cathedral.

...

II

...

Hare Island

where lies Peter the Great,

a man who regarded kingdom

as a salient trust, a sacred endeavour

to Mother Russia

on whose generous breasts

peasant generations have gratefully sucked

while royalty tugged

and spat.

...

He didn't get everything right,

mind.

Some flawed laws weren't frankly

given pause, enough.

But with tattletale Hindsight, following eager,

ever-noisily chewing soured cud –

why, anyone

can be found to have fucked up.