Dee

In the passage there's a fight, between the drinkers and vagrants, her youngest suffers in silence, some ports are a sty, behind the lip of alley ways, where the cruise ships lie, she goes forward with a sigh, a cool oasis mind contained, away from the tourist cries, their brains are fried, what you would expect anyway, by sun, sex and wine, stilled by a daughter dying, laughing like no one's to blame, she dreams of islands, waits a moment for a lamp to shine, the monastery’s sweet gaze, a loving darkness around her light, kneels to an ancient flame.