Under the cliffs
that walled your domain
is a house
inhabited by ghosts
shaped terraces of
lavender and thyme
your totems, your
carefully folded shirts.
There is much of
England in Deia.
Down the narrow
lane where you took
your daily walk,
are giant sycamores
and frothing
hawthorns; a tumbling brook.
There is a
different poetry here.
You knew that the
Goddess must live
in the stepped
mountains that climb to the sky
and the tumbling
orchards of olive and fig.
On the crescent
beach of your silver bay
your lemon is in
our wine today.
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