Out in the head sweat wastelands
Of a Portuguese summer
You stand isolated and dramatic
The only green in a sunburnt distance
Holding up oil fruit, suspended from the earth
Where blistered feet must manoeuvre
Up in the ice stilled farmlands
Of a Lithuanian winter
You have come out of context
A single green in a snowcapped whole
Branching exstatic across an unmoving season
Where wrapped up arms hold out in hope
Near to the sea parted sandlines
Of my ever changing limit
You land experienced and unexpected
Dressed in green of both soul and name
Standing unchallenged in the taken space
Where the colour differences are not so temperate.
A beach State 