Europe ripples around this island
with Egyptian vultures, patient as the siege
of Fort Sant Felip, where I, John Murray -
our future as thin as Minorcan garrigue -
muster Lepanto and Xorigeur gin.
After Canavall and Canavant factions in Maó,
the road was paved with Kane's wine and seed
until the lynching of Admiral Byng
pour encourager les autres. Now the red globe
is a bleb on cannon exits to the sea
and our former deep water anchorage.

The stone curlew's reptilian eye catches
and holm oak, dwarf palm and carob
withhold their sap. My dream fevers
are of sepia, fresas and gambas
where anchovies torture the headland.
The bee-eater bubbles its pruuk
among barrack graves open from dawn 'til dusk.
The Tramuntana buffets with spicy wind
as clouds patch our mud. Nights draw meteorites.
Dim torches cast my death in momentary snow.