" Cuttings "
I read your poetry amongst new green leaves
of Brugmansia, north-light dim in midwinter.
Here, I unfold sun, paper marked with frail meanderings,
strong dark utterances;
lace and wrought iron.
I touch the down of young growth,
they feel like your syllables.
Buds become the wine red timbre
of your voice.
Mi te falto mucho.
Stanzas shed graphite, unfold and grow
towards the sky, gain dimensions.
I am slant-eyed by sunlight
in a frankincence grove;
adrift in a canvas sailed lateen,
trailing fingers in water.
It becomes too dark to read,
words blur this side of February
on a cold island.
Green is the colour of hope, a waiting
for colour and petal sheen;
for words to become full and round
on a breath no longer there.
© 2004 Vienna (Carole Barley)
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