On the river's bank - discarded waders
dropped there, cast aside the day before. A
little yellow orchid drooping, damsel-
head in danger, wanting fellow flowers,
wanting pollination, hoping summer's
kindly fingers touch upon the shadows.

To grace those plants which suffer most from thirst;
is this the noblest aim? Come Spring you may
breathe life upon the wilting flowers first.

The garden's wish is only to be nursed.
For those who care to look, trees know the way
to grace those plants which suffer most from thirst.

The saplings too, in knowing that they're cursed,
in ****** can attempt one last act: they
breathe life upon the wilting flowers, first.

So seeing someday struggling seedlings pursed
in sombre perspiration, you should play
to grace those plants which suffer most from thirst.

To love with equal temperament the worst
and best, to always beam 'yes', never weigh,
breathe life upon the wilting flowers first.

The lawn is shot, upturned, that bomb has burst
and all looks lost; the wind has swept the bay.
To grace those plants which suffer most from thirst,
breathe life upon the wilting flowers first.

after the act
there is a quiet lull

a kind of retirement
for the senses.

when the flesh
rampaged until dull
and dead and broken
from passion
            is a new canvas
            again, then

that assault
the dawn raid

artillery refusing to believe
in boundaries, saying
a path is better
a path is better

and this is a fresh battle

I took a walk indulged in that
ignoble state of mind in which
I feel forgotten by my friends.
And when I reached the traffic lights,
I thought I safely took my way.

But what if, having succeeded
to cross the road, I have died,
and walk on coma-like, thinking
that I live on when really I
am lying in a bed somewhere?

Maybe if I find my new ward
and enter in my formless way,
I might well see myself adored
before I duly slip away.

Be with it;
your breath is better
if it's known.

Shush, if you present gods - always are
their glassy likenesses in what’s
just past the door. The mushrooms,
those brittle wooded floors. Glossy
instances of truth, shielded
so elastically from what is.

It’s not only past the door though.
They make it up; they lie within.
Gods are always present if you shush.

Waking up to chainsaws -
Morning the spluttering
engine of mourning. It's
in the name of truer
trees. Slicing the butter
trunks, dropping the chippings;
garnishing with finesse
my olive tree below.