Saturday, 30 June 2012


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,

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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