poemimage

The proportional yet abstract face made of shapes like cactus or flowers,

perhaps a mask in commedia dell’arte,

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or a book describing the famous wonders of the world,

thin as a snowflake, balanced on one edge,

tipping to one side diagonally & dampened by droplets

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sliding down a stained blurry windowpane

pooling on the ledge, osmosis dampening

cream-coloured paper, flecked & rippled like grief or papyrus –

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inscriptions of blue ink (messages of mysterious flavour)

to devour, to decipher (imagine the Hanging Gardens of Babylon)

& heaving your bag of magical tools to your shoulder

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building a a sentient tunnel

disappeared beneath the waterfall of a viridian hedge foaming upon the lawn,

blotted by twilight & in the jasmine-scented shade shadowy moss

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envelops a stone, upright, sunk into fertile soil &

inscribed with symbols of a fertile flavour –

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I’m not being sentimental.