The Bunsen burner’s gas flames blue –
    a searing blaze, the hottest hue –
          that heating an alembic ***
              distils the oil from bergamot.
A fruity smell imbues the room
    with floral scents of citrus bloom
          from blazing orange acid fruits
              with aromatic attributes.
The cooled condensing droplets form
        an ointment that can stop a storm.

Water trickling down into the river:
from clouds God's Spirit, like a dove, descends,
as a voice proclaims, My Son the life-giver.

On the sable hair of our forgiver
droplets form, as Jesus’ baptism sends
water trickling down into the river.

Sunlit torrents pour down from upriver
their roaring origin, in stillness ends,
as a voice proclaims, My Son the life-giver.

The veil rips open, a golden sliver
illuminates – with bright yellow beam-ends–
water trickling down into the river.

Is it the cold Jordan makes me shiver
or do I feel a something that transcends
as a voice proclaims, My Son the life-giver?

I stand and watch from the bank downriver
this man who will make fishermen his friends.
Water trickling down into the river
as a voice proclaims, My Son the life-giver.

Three kings,
    (camels, brocaded silk, jewelled rings)
give myrrh, frankincense and gold,
  to the star stinking stable born, offerings
    for the keeper of the fold,
    the toddling Lord of all.
This infant will be offered gall
    seers foretold;
the hammer's singing
  strike shall drive iron nails, cold
  steel piercing skin like stings
    that spike him for my sins.

On Monday, Arthur, wooden sword in hand,
  defeats the roses in their crimson bed.
On Tuesday, Arthur makes his bravest stand,
  against the garden pond, with doughty Fred.
On Wednesday, Arthur leads his fearless band
  through snow; the flashing red - a racing sled.
On Thursday, Arthur – secret agent, creeps
    around the lair. On Friday, done, he sleeps.

On weekends, Arthur’s with his dad all day;
    who takes his son to captain England’s team:
when dazzling Arthur makes the winning play
    they celebrate with strawberries and cream.
On Sunday Arthur goes to church to pray
    then polishes his sword to make it gleam.
On Sunday night the world is right and so
    this King prepares to fight his Monday foe.

In Aberteiffi, autumn’s freezing wind
blows russet leaves along the icy street:
the weather, unforgiving, hard, unkind,
unlike the Indian October heat.

So different from the bamboo groves of home
where hornbills gok, we walk along the quay
or stroll on Poppit Sands watching the foam
that crests the cold waves of the Irish sea.

Our warm hands gasp each other as we comb
the seashore– driftwood, seaweed, scattered free
across the beach: we make ourselves a home
along the ozone shore she lives with me.

The Aberteiffi autumn freezing days
are heated by the fusion of our ways.

Kolkata, and we stop there for a while
and think of parting as we have to wait
(a separation of five thousand miles)
to get visa from the consulate.

They question, poke, requiring photos,
to test if we are honest and don't lie.
They want to know we’re true, and not a pose,
and so they start their bureaucratic pry.

How did our wedding come about, are we
devoted to each other, yes they see
the candor, certitude, veracity.
We get her visa straight away, we’re free.

Then book her flight, we’re on our way to Wales,
the land of song, of rain and winter gales.