Through smoke of sacrificial fires along the hills
the sun last evening sank like a clot of blood
from the throat of the new slain bull.
Eyes reddened by the smoke , I sought the constellations
but the cloak of night showed no emblazoned stars.

The smell of burning hung throughout the night
sickly sweet and acrid,
but with the morning light , the god , new born
rises with gold vermilion glory in the east
and spreads a benediction wide across the bay
until the water, mirror-still beneath the faint blue haze,
all that remains of last night’s immolation,
stretches pink from point across to headland point.

The moored yachts rest with their attendant gulls,
reflection of boat and bird transmuted by the god
to show the dawning of a world renewed