On this day a brightness stands against blue
blue overwritten by shape- white-
an ornamental chimney
lidded, blessed with a little roof of it's own
white of paper outshone 
by vital integral scissored-out shapes
dainty as a pottery oil-lamp.
What is it to you, T.S?
Nothing significant on this day?
What can truly be said, Pablo,
on this day, how many people?
Oh, Seamus, What should be done?
By slow steps through Portuguese heat 
my ornamental chimney moves in sympathy 
while held fast in tradition's fair blue,
the relationship born tickles me.
Meaning is in and of the shadows, T.S.
Pablo Neruda violently stirring sangria 
and moving on- Seamus Heaney forms
a sole-and-tile detail of each step.
There's a casa blanca, roof mainly missing,
anarchy in the jardin barely tamed by fierce sun
but stop. One thing at a time.
Understanding complexity, explaining mystery:
this was never our job.
The line between remains straight, simple.
You remain practical, I see smoke stains.
Hollow, that is your nature. Beautiful.
On this day like a bell-tower or minaret
dovecote, lighthouse, lingham, menhir.
You remain perculiar to these lands
I have only to return.