The Walled Garden

Like grain that waits its time
to germinate and senses rain, I wait;
the earth in which it lies
is both a tomb and an embrace;
the room in which we lie
is love’s first kiss
and its sarcophagus;
the flames leap high, to sink in bliss;
smoke suffocates. And there is this:
the walled garden of poetry
where muses love to congregate
and peacocks’ cries cascade from distant
courtyards domed by evening skies;
where cheap wine is ambrosia
and Eros languidly reclines
at every feast and meeting of true minds.
This place I recognise.

The portal to the street, the sea,
the ferry-ride across the strait
to everyday reality, to exile or escape…
It is the way of lovers to embrace
and separate - all infidels and true
believers share this fate. The peacock preens,
inclines his crown and stalks the garden
wall alone. The muses hesitate, and shake
their heads, and lock the gate.

Ambrosia turns sour as vinegar,
left overnight. The peacock’s voice
is harsh by morning light.
The temple on the hillside shimmers,
paler than a bride;
the poem a fallen husk of grain
that only rain revives.

The muses are retiring
from their courtyard, one by one,
and Eros, seeking company,
has fled, disconsolate.
The peacock fans his tail,
the lovers soon will fall from grace;
the singer tunes her lyre,
the muse averts her gaze.

Poetry in exile is a beggar
at the gates, a stranger
at the table or an empty place.
All roads lead to wilderness
in days of rage, when Eros lies,
and there is no way back
to secret trysts.

In darkness a chimera brushes wings
across my face. Silence in its prison
longs to speak. The morning breaks.