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Description
Lover, you should have seen
that house I built
on the fringes of your smile,
a valley where the time is always
7pm in February
and the weather sings
of delayed summer.

Clay walls the colour of sunset,
cracked like a Roman fresco
or perhaps the rough hands of a farmer,
or a soldier, inexplicably warm and full
of gentle, ancient love;
windows sealed by terracotta pots
overflowing with rosemary,
that look out on a vineyard
which only grows grapes from
my memories of Montmartre

The air thick with the scent of
basil, you walk down my veranda
to the gate across the garden,
that stoic custodian of the
comings and goings of
utter strangers, and
the taste of
fresh honey
lingers on your tongue
still.

How strange it is, now,
indeed how bewildering,
to imagine how I ever
paved that path for
two sets of footprints,
eagerly anticipating
your once-promised visits
to the oldest of friends.

And there, by the well,
our innocence is a
tyre-swing hanging
from a tree named Yggdrasil,
swaying idly in the wind
as though beckoning
(even longing)
for that child, long-since deceased,
to fill its missing axles.

Lover, I should have been
your lover, but I'm just a
gardener in your orchard
holding a bag full of
thyme.

Description
Lover, you should have seen
that house I built
on the fringes of your smile,
a valley where the time is always
7pm in February
and the weather sings
of delayed summer.

Clay walls the colour of sunset,
cracked like a Roman fresco
or perhaps the rough hands of a farmer,
or a soldier, inexplicably warm and full
of gentle, ancient love;
windows sealed by terracotta pots
overflowing with rosemary,
that look out on a vineyard
which only grows grapes from
my memories of Montmartre

The air thick with the scent of
basil, you walk down my veranda
to the gate across the garden,
that stoic custodian of the
comings and goings of
utter strangers, and
the taste of
fresh honey
lingers on your tongue
still.

How strange it is, now,
indeed how bewildering,
to imagine how I ever
paved that path for
two sets of footprints,
eagerly anticipating
your once-promised visits
to the oldest of friends.

And there, by the well,
our innocence is a
tyre-swing hanging
from a tree named Yggdrasil,
swaying idly in the wind
as though beckoning
(even longing)
for that child, long-since deceased,
to fill its missing axles.

Lover, I should have been
your lover, but I'm just a
gardener in your orchard
holding a bag full of
thyme.