Saturday, 30 June 2012

Rosemary

Step down into the kitchen.
Black and white tiles as on a chess board.
Greeted by a stranger with such warmth.
As if he was my closest friend, brother.
A herb in his shirt pocket. It takes me
a while to name this herb.

There was a path that I followed.
I followed it at dawn and at such
times as I could steal from the day.
It twists and winds and I don't
know where it's leading or why
I'm following.

Another road, linear, as the Roman road
that ran directly through this kitchen
was like an inverted rainbow: no curves,
spectrum of colours, just a broken promise
that ended with a crock filled with dust.

Flies buzz endlessly around the room
where the view shows weather
out of kilter with the summer.

I try thinking small. Picture
parchment paper, linen thread,
yellow beeswax, steel needle
and bone.

Pages connected
by thread or web to America,
Canada, Germany, Greece.
Casual encounters
that spark stories,
histories.

I look down
on the long grass, three
different colours of poppy.

What I think is rosemary.
The symbol of love
and loyalty.

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