The Buddha of Madeira
Jardim Botanico
The Buddha smiles, yet shuns the sea;
in perfect weather perfect wine
from perfect vines flows perfectly:
here nothing is intemperate.
They know—the Buddha, wine and sea—
no need to be immediate;
the birds of paradise agree.
The orchids came a little late,
and Zarco burned the Dragon Tree.
The Monte drivers choose their line—
the Buddha, wine and sea, all three,
the Dragon Tree, too, left behind—
and, like the wine, we travel home,
but try to keep that smile in mind.
The perfect days have gone and come;
we stepped on stones did I and she,
we stepped on air and wondered some
why Buddha smiles, yet shuns the sea.
Ashford in the Water
The trees, as tall as shadows, fall
into the water I would draw.
A bridge between two nowheres goes;
a single river swan who knows
the river is, not what it’s for,
goes, too, between two nowheres. All
my dreamings of a ripple drawn
will not be done, and I’ll be gone
before another sun is born.
He, balanced on an echo, then
will sail another shadowed dawn
and draw my ripple once again—
his day begin. My will be done. |
A Game of Graces
Three graces—one has turned away—
have cast a charm on this one day
with nakedness and elegance:
all fluid form, with absent faces.
Two herons play a game of graces,
throw and catch their eloquence.
The sun, through pines, lights golden crab;
I, like the herons, take a stab
at making something make some sense.
Sit by me, listen while I say
my piece on this one golden day:
all love’s not folly—ours is true,
and we shall play at graces too.
A Plague on All Your Houses
Eyam
No need to ask: which village is it?
We, like the flea, have made our visit—
parasitic, etherised,
unbusy in unruly sun,
remembering, like everyone:
the unleft ones, the dear demised,
how every house was cursed by loss—
the house we stayed in too, of course.
Perhaps our stay was ill-advised?
Once bitten—should we catch, then drop—
will human voices wake us up?
Or will we drown in sentiment
(our own insidious intent)?
First published in The Flea |
