We may no longer gather rosebuds:
Listen – midst the ash and bone
Limp red roses whisper tales
Of rosebuds dead and gone.
The flies drone on then stop. The silence
Fills with heat and sun and smells.
A fly moves. In the silence
I think I hear St Osyth’s bells
Ring out across the empty marsh
Green and grey, the cold grey sea
Washing the foaming sand, a gull
Call – call – call – to me.
Around the dustbins
on bones and bottles
Roses bloom and
fade and die:
for you and I
live longer than
the roses, we
love on and on
when hope is gone.
On bones and bottles
on love, and life,
in spite of all.
I: A Yard Behind A Bar, Casablanca, Morocco
Sometimes I sit here ithyphallic,
god of the beasts.
The flies attend
and tortoises when in the mood
A geranium they threw out blooms.
If flies were bigger, didn’t wait –
like tortoises, say –
I’d be “food! I am food!”
white and gymnosophic.
Lord of the flies, a turbot head
begins to breed.
I smile. The geranium