It’s been a long Indian summer / and the hips are rotting on the beach rose. / I can almost…
Books in cosy littered room ,
Feet in slippered ease,
Silver candles in the gloom,
Stars in naked trees
tell them that the baby
that count in them census already
There’s this life and no hereafter –
/ I’m sure of that
/ but still…
Turned seventy, and not wanting
/ to waste the years left, half-asleep,
/ I’m stocking the shelves of a larder.
/ Each day is an empty…
I went out to the hazel wood, / Because a fire was in my head, / And cut and peeled…
Here, under the awning of cotton,
/ Tomatoes are heaped in a flare
/ Of glossy red beauty, and rotten
/ Sick-sweet smells of fruit fill…
You hold the sapling straight, backfill,
/ heel it in. A rainbow
/ pours from the watering can.
The rain was sliverin on the windae pane
/ when you gaed oot tae pick strawberries,
/ reid pockit moons, for the denner…
More rat than bird,
/ more superstition than fox,
/ you hang from that banyan
/ branch like a deflated black
/ umbrella and, when you flap
/ through the…
For a few days only,
/ the plum tree outside the window
/ shoulders perfection.
/ No matter the plums will be small,
/ eaten only by squirrels…
Moscow is milling with watermelons.
/ Everything breathes a boundless freedom.
/ And it blows with unbridled fierceness
/ from the breathless melonvendors.
/ Stalls. Din. Girls’ headscarves.