At last I have found my Treasure Island,
my island of solitude, gracious land where
I can think and link my feelings and
dreams that are shared by the breezes,
by the great solitude of topmost peaks
of mountains and rocks, by the streams
murmuring, with gratitude, on their way
gleaming with the light of the sun on
their pebbled or sandy beds.
There I am never alone, neither alone nor
sad, for my Island has a soul always
ready to take my whole being and caress
it gently with the delicate touch of her
hand, innocently... because in her
bosom there is neither sin nor vice nor
sadness unjustified that smears love's own
prices, or injures its translucent aura
divine... or kills the spiritual poise
which is mine.
For endless days I think of her, beloved
Island, for ever I dream of her and I
dream as I stand because she is all I can
keep in my old heart without fears or
remorse taking any part: since in her
sweetness I find life's nobility and purpose,
knowing that in her sobriety I can be a
child of hers, of her fertile land where all
her beauty and loveliness hang like a star
twinkling from moment to moment in
rhythm with my vibrating manly love.
She is gentle as snow falling, as pure
as a dove, as honest as honesty, as gay as
a sunray playing in the frothy
turbulent spray.
She lives in me and I in her-
all unashamed- in the spirit of beauty
luminously unadorned... She comes and
goes as the winds, as the seasons with
their variations, their enchanted reasons
in which the depths of the oceans,
the height of the firmament are not
partakers in the forming thereof but only
in the limitation so that the arrival or
departure is as natural as nature or as
the charms or encantations she offers
I listen and I hear, I sing and I hear
the echo bursting from a throat not of
birds, but of magic torture from a heart
throbbing with the force of nature,
like a whispering breeze enveloped by
its spell brought from far away prairies
where fairies dwell, and where the harvest
is mature, the golden heads of corn
swaying in the wind. Then I rejoice in
hearing her rich fulltoned voice replying
to mine with notes clear as jewels,
rare and strange, cascading into the
depths of my heart and there melting
into an infinity of joy exuberant,
enchantment of sweet purity.
I am imprisoned in the charm of her song;
such sweetness, such light purity, yet
such strength. I am captivated in her
stillness of breath when thunder rolls in
the skies, life and death go hand in hand
coursing the span of space at a fantastic
pace to win the unknown race of destiny,
of happiness or catastrophe.
Yet a happy prisoner am I in my
wonderment when mute she remains as
invisibility ordains; but there are no bars
to my prison, nor pains of mind and soul,
and I am as free as the air of her sweet
breath, and can go to the stars knowing
that my Island will never fail me but is
always ready to listen to me and to give
of herself from the font of the love,
radiating on her countenance, gracing
her maidenhood, entrancing me with the
fragrance of her presence, or the
illusion of her absence, but always calling,
calling and waiting. Yet apart we must
remain in our closeness like the heart
of a mother who in sweet tenderness
lets her child go from her, feeling the
agony of despair, but unrelentless in
the sacrifice of his good.
Oh my beloved Island, I now begin
to feel the dismay, the heartache, when
good bye we must surely say, but for how
long will it be dearest Island? Perhaps
one day in the unknown beyond: all alone,
sitting by some wonderful lake, I may
atone for my faults, and be granted a
vision true and rare in the rippling water:
your reflection from the furthermost bank
with the sweet calm charm I always love
to see. Perhaps then you will approach
even nearer to me where we can speak
of the life we shared on earth and be glad
that we never forgot the purpose we set
before us, as a symbol of the great gift
God gave us; a land where our souls
uplift thoughts to the highest regions of
the mind enjoy the loftiness of the
possible greatness of mankind.
I want to share with you my Island
the profound secrets of my heart for you
to guard in yours, but no other island
must share them with us, for that would
be criminal because love holds a secret,
nested without fear, in the bosom,
enfolded just as a scarlet rose its own
nectar, as the grass its dew, as the oyster
its pearl, and the thrush its song.
I know you cannot forget me when no
longer you see me because you know
when I am far I am still nigh at hand,
so very close to you, my dearest star.
You know this to be true because you
have felt my breath on your bosom,
my heart-beat in your heart. You have
seen my boat anchor by your shore,
your bay, gently hugging its keel.
You have seen my blood transformed
into a crystal river winding through your
meadows on its way to our mutual home.


Fifty copies of this poem were originally
printed by hand at the 'St Anthony Press'
C.P. Healey, Spring 1960