I
 
You surprised me.
I was expecting the train
to appear on a different platform
(there were only two),
but there you were
walking towards me
and I was still drawing the view.
 
You were so full
of delight at ‘being here’.
And I had myriad thoughts
gathered like the flowers
I’d picked in welcome
that suddenly seemed so sad
as I placed them in your hands,
already wilting, already
past their best.
 
How stupid to think
such a gesture
could mean anything
true. I love you, I’d said.
But you were already
thinking of the orchids
you’d seen over the station fence
and the photograph
you had to take.
 
II
 
Fields of blown grass
too wet to haymake
now too tall
too thick to cut
full of foreigners
tares Biblical
a morning’s work of
investigation with a
reference book: grasses.
Such tones tints and textures
such plenitudes of stalk
directions nodding
swaying a circular motion
a field of movement
against the hills
against the sky

III
 
Evening: still light
Door open: soft breeze
Beethoven on the radio:
A heroic symphony.
Indomitable.
You are kneading dough,
I am reading by the door.
Both restless, both unable
To surrender to the day.
 
IV
 
You sit in front of me
exactly where you sat
last year (but in the spring)
when there was a different light
and the colours of the garden
were gathering their brightness
for summer.
 
I have a photo of that time:
your quiet gaze (of love I like to think).
 
Today we hold each other’s gaze
as in its morning’s air
a river little distant
claims sounds’ space
enclosing us
 
in its embrace.
  
V
 
This garden
touches me
like no other.
 
It haunts
my dreams
with its
still rich
forms and colours.
 
Sun light is
playing patterns
on the dewed grass.
The nearby river,
the echoing birds,
the braying cattle,
my slight breath,
this pen’s touch,
such wonders
of stillness.
 
VI
 
You are my dearest, my love,
my companion of the hearth,
the woman who guards my keys,
the girl who holds my hand,
the artist who with delight
entrances me in what she reveals
of a world within a world.
I am so in love with her.
 
But I am full of sadness,
full of dread that this loving
amour will fade and end.
 
Already on the cusp of summer
and I sense autumn in the air -
when leaves will fail and float and fall.
 
VII
 
As I left you
I broke a long-held rule
and turned to look back,
and through
the windowed door,
saw you rise
from the table and walk
with such grace
and confidence
across the room
and out of sight.

When Christmas time comes around,
Christmas lights are hung
Outside everywhere.
On houses on trees on bushes and lamp posts.
But I'll tell you a secret,
These aren't lights!
No sir, they are stars.
Fallen, jealous stars.
Envious for once that they must
Hover above the magnificent world
Below them.
Because when pine trees' branches
Are heavy with snow,
And our hearts
Are heavy with love,
And when nights are quiet and still,
Because of the cold,
Our world is a better place.
To be a part of the  world below them,
The stars willingly jump from the sky,
Like baby birds jumping from nests.
They soar and float through the winter air,
Surfing through the breeze,
On surf boards make of luck
Until they land in the safe arms of
The Christmas Light Factory.
Careful! They're hot
-don't touch them just yet,
They'll find their own way into
Strands of wires,
So that we can hang them
On our roofs and trees and bushes,
So they can be part of us
Instead of above us.
That's why sir,
When we drive around the neighborhood,
Looking at the lights,
My eyes are always closed.
Murmuring wishes yet to be granted,
Because I know better than
To be fooled by
The lights that are actually stars.