Michael Buhagiar (13 January 1954 / Sydney)

Those eyes so black; that gaze so blank.
Black like witching moons her eyes
When stars burn the night with lonely cries,
That through foam to the floor of my ocean sank.

Eyes like the vaults of a global bank
That takes all for growth when the tenant dies,
With heaps of gold that to the ceilings rise,
That to test its worth my coinage drank.

Eyes wherein smouldered Greek fire.
Eyes that would prove me a frozen liar,
Inherited straight from African Eve,

Black as the maw of a low-toned bell,
The notes of a cello that for summer grieve,
The hangman as he opens the door of my cell.