Garden, Alone
I am here, in the garden, the only one
that matters.
With insects as company –
flies, and the red-and-black spider
hanging from my sunglasses.
Cuckoo. Swarms.
Bleats. Swallows.
Buzz. Barks.
Whines. Calls.
The smell of nothing at all.
A confetti of magnolia petals – all
stages from virgin to crone.
Bracken reaches out in plumes.
I want to lie naked in a field full of
women.
And lunch on benches, chatter on rungs.
People have died.
Sheep walk the tracks.
Bluebells wash over in slices.
I have no money, no job, no children,
no husband.
It is now and only now.
I dive in deep for the sword at the
bottom.
_____________________________
Unbeknownst to Me
Blades of grass do somersaults
and bend to the rules of the afternoon.
My head spins in a dance with the
earth,
one of which I am unaware, blind to, or
not listening.
They waltz and flurry unbeknownst to me
- as I lie down hankered, tempted,
to throw everything into the harbour,
let the wild water transport it
offshore,
somewhere sunken, laden with treasure.
Branches glimmer - and again -
the breeze is peripheral,
there seem to be whole laws and
kingdoms
rejoicing in secret.
The ribcage splatters
as it would
when made aware of its liquidity.
How the breath travels
is a mystery -
I suspect on ancient railways
draped in velvet,
reedy as thread.
You Could Call Me Lazy
Driftwood on the carpet.
Ghost of an incision.
Dreaming dog.
Rumination,
a sticky teat.
White walls
smoother than arrow.
I bathe in broth,
my bones,
jelly
to the pallet.
Cycle
In my mouth I hold the absence of
taste.
In my throat, a whole clearing
of white eggs and blue crystal.
The colony of ants that live in my
stomach
feast on long-dead days and colour.
Gooseberries glisten somewhere in an
orchard
surrounded by mountains.
My love assembles tents in the clouded
sun.
Protection serves as layer upon layer
of breath, whimsy, rogue dandelion
seeds.
The house where I was born
looks down from its cradle.
A stream in the shape of a graveyard
carries with it yellow poppies.
The petal rustles
as it drops.
_____________________________
Dripping
Memories dripping like stalagmites
- I'd like to eat them
but fear dissolve.
Crowded,
a branch falls in silence.
The coffee sits
obedient as cream
between us,
and the puzzle.
The lake leaves
green freckles
on the skin
of grandmothers.
I catch myself
- in mirrors,
in strangers,
swinging,
as the day bows.
_____________________________
Tides
A breathless walk
through unfamiliar trees.
A bouquet of flowers,
bright yellow,
unfitting.
A cookie
in the place
I predicted my future
that one time.
So heavy with tides.
You say.
_____________________________
Baba Rosa
Kitchens
become steeped
with the smell of Turkish coffee
and Baba's cherry slatko
becomes an emblem
of oversaturated sentiments
harvested
like the final blossoms
of a hot
and arduous
summer.
_____________________________
Strangers
She walked up the hill
holding yellow flowers.
She wore the pattern
of tropical leaves.
He dressed all in blue, exiting a van
the candy version of ocean.
She imagined him saying,
Are those for me?
_____________________________
Walk in a Field
Rattling crickets and
tides of traffic
weaving in, weaving out,
the landscape.
Mountains sit
heavy as fact.
A surprise of heat.
The breeze, less so.
Brown castle.
Titillating strip
of sea.
It is enough to be a witness,
employed full-time
by the senses
- arrest me as they do -
to the moment
that lies just inches
beyond my nose.
And yet my mind runs miles
to escape
the anchor
of presence.
It is simple
and delightful
to notice
a stack of black hay-bales
twinkling like onyx
and above,
in a distant village,
a reflection
calling
like a lighthouse
(though it is afternoon
and July).
Pylons
that must have seemed abhorrent
at the time
now look quaint as windmills;
electricity poles
as organic
as washing lines.
Contours of space
spelt out by birds
in their flights
so full of meaning,
while a butterfly dances,
frivolous
and ignorant
to the finite summer.
