Ħaġar Qim never looks as good
as when the setting sun
lies in tatters
among the carob leaves,
solid stones
prick ears, whisper confessions,
pillars lift arms
longing for heaven.
And darkness descends.
And in the skein of the waves
the stars shimmer back
and rubble walls reek of dew.
And I am lured by the altar
to sacrifice an animal
when a skink drunk drowsy
the spiral-folded tongue
undoes,
in order to relish
in the dark,
the meaning of the eternal.