There Was An Island... Poem by robert dickerson

There was an island in the deep, blue sea
where no one ever died or was born
because these hum-drum events were profane
to the god whose getaway it was-don't ask me why.
The groans of the sick and the dying never soiled
the air there. One heard only the wind
singing to itself in the umbrella pines
or the bleating of sheep, that made a listener suddenly feel
outside the whorl of Time itself, there was only Now
or sometimes in the evening
the bells of the wise, homecoming goats, racing each other
down the hillside on dozens of legs
from where they'd been grazing above the tree line
fattening on grass;
And at night the breeze swung the lanterns
strung in the ports and made the shadows dance.
Everyday there was a procession and lots of singing
in honor of the god to whom they built lots of temples
and sanctuaries and things. There was no such thing as shame:
sin, invented in another part of the world, hadn't
dawned on them yet. For breakfast
you simply went out to your garden and
pulled oranges and grapefruits from the trees
or turned over a spadeful of earth to find
clusters of little potatoes, and the fish there
practically jumped into your nets,
so eager were they to become your dinner.
They also had corn and figs and olives, I believe.
It was all very nice and everyone lived to be at least a hundred
and stayed pretty spry, because they ate so sparingly
and