Thick, invisible threads, the spider holds the heart,
The butterfly attending to her flowers,
The bite of the bee – harsh gesture of tenderness,
Bat’s sensitive hearing gear pitched high,
Lizard’s tongue testing for vanilla air,
A love lark singing to a star.

But this is monkey love, dexterity
Of opposable thumbs, naughtiness
Of stolen kisses, sharp claws
Cutting the heart’s cords,
Hungry munching of the skin’s
Softest zones, push and pull
Of sentiments, sometimes upwards
Towards cotton clouds, sometimes
Downwards towards the earth’s
Rocky surface.

And always chattering nonsense,
Understood only by the two of us.

I’ve heard the muezzin’s call at dawn,
Church bells at noon, the gentle twang
Of singing bowls in temples,
The hushed chanting of mantras,
Meditation’s heavy silence.
I’ve heard the waves slapping the beach
Again and again, gull’s protesting.
I’ve heard the earth’s tectonic rumble,
Thunder’s base grumble, thick rain
Falling like window blinds, the wind’s
Subtle ghost whipping through helpless leaves.
I’ve heard magpie’s jabber and crows’ ***** discourse,
The dove’s soft evening prayer.  I’ve heard locusts’
Rhythmic rubbing of skinny stick legs, lizards
Scuttle in dusky corners, unseen things flap
Their wings in the dark. Even the soundless wings
Of butterflies, they say, can change the world.
I’ve heard mountain streams giggling, lazy rivers
Yawning, bubbles of love floating on wet kisses.
There’s no rivalry, no conflict, no violence here
Because all sounds have harmony in common.

If art is a March pigeon,
Spring is a terrace buttressed by hope.
If art is a green brigade,
Winter has finally surrendered.
If art is a spider’s web,
Nature’s an expert designer.
Art must be somewhere between sea salt and sky breath,
Splitting the clouds like feathered arrows.
Art is the magic of abstract,
A question of connecting the dots.
Art is a surreal awakening
From a living dream.
Art is stargazing astonishment, unashamed pleasure,
A reach for the extraordinary.
Art is a rose garden singing celebration.
Art is a religion of invented prayer.
If art is almost grasping the essential,
Leaving the end in suspense,
Then all humans must be artists.

Ever since that afternoon, artichokes,
To me, are creatures of the sea.
They’re a chosen species, daylily stars
With softened points, salt-lipped,
Afloat in olive oil, something
So Mediterranean about them,
Aqua-spirals, flat wings of green-white light,
As if their closed leaves could tie up
Landlocked clouds. Egg-shaped, heart-shaped,
Protective layers overlapping, they speak
In wet kisses, gently caressing the tongue
With a blizzard of soft flavours.
They embrace all wines, distract all meats,
Flirt with bread, politely invite dessert –
Sweetheart vegetables willing to be dressed
In bikinis or burkas, soft-centred lovables,
The most delicate of palettes seduced
By their siren song.

Maybe the bed lies about the garden,
Seeing it from a one-eyed supine pose.
The garden, ***** by winter, stands naked
Outside the window, looking in.
The bed is comfortable, complacent;
It doesn’t much care about ragged orphans
Or abused women.
Perhaps it should remember it’s made of wood,
Same as the trees, though it’s covered with
A springy mattress, happy sheets, cottony quilts.
The garden has known spring abundance
And will know it again. The bed has known
Nightmares, sickness and may even learn
About death. In summer the bed will be stripped,
The garden dressed in luscious fragments
Of leaf and petal, hung in perfect equilibrium.
The bed and the garden, like body and soul,
Each needs to remember their debt to the other.