SPRING FEVER

Streams shivering
Sap rising
Stems shooting
Light green filigree

Soft fur buds
On pussy willow
Sprouting
In high grass
Sweating

Tall figures
Of
Hot pungent
Heather
Hovering

Banks blanketed
in periwinkle

With flushed cheeks
Spring is coming

SPRING

Lashed.
Like a gale,
And then a
Lull.

Whipped.
A roller coaster,
Chugging up one side,
Careening down the other,
A sharp left turn,
And stop.

Thrashed.
One miserable day,
Dawns into a brilliant
Blue next.

Breathtaken.
Schizoid
Manic
Depressive
Bipolar
That is February.

MORNING

One voice shatters
The dark silence
Then another
And another

I saw it first
No, I saw it
No, it was me over here
I saw it
Then all at once

The joyous cacophony
builds
To a crescendo
I close the window
And slip back between warm sheets
Day breaks

IS IT LOVE

A shy breeze breathes
A heady mix of
Penetrating perfume

Acacia in bloom
Heavy clusters of
Delicate white petals
Its lady finger leaves
Lightly tracing shadows

Intoxicating elderflower’s lace antimacassar
Searching for a smooth sofa shoulder to lie on

Standing proud firm full figs
Not yet hanging soft

Ever the consummate gentleman
The linden proffers his heart shaped leaf

Is it love or is it just
Spring

GRASPING THE INTANGIBLE

My head is spinning,
All this talk of technology
It brings us together
Keeps us
Apart.

In touch
A touch screen
Are ironic
Like some prophylactic
Some curtain in a marriage bed
The wall of the stall

So many messages sent
Devoid of scent

We hear from each other
Without
Rhythm, timbre or tone
Of a voice

This powerful medium
Of self-expression
Is missing
An ardent expression
And a warm touch

bdsm D/s it’s all the same to me

Some like it hot
With a clip or a swat

Some like to say who’s on top
With a leash or a crop

Some like to give what for
With niqab or chador

We don’t all speak with one voice
For some it’s a choice.

SPACE AND TIME

According to recent reports
I’m at a stage in my life
When my hormones are telling me
To stop

To stop
Waiting on everyone
Like some waitress
In a coffee shop

To stop
Bending over

To pick up the clothes
Off the floor or
Load the dishwasher.

To stop
Laying back

Waiting for life
To come to me

To stop carving
The roast
And start

Carving out some space and time
For myself

PROCESS

The slip
Of a slithery silk charmeuse
Through my fingers

The undulation
Of the large rectangle
As it floats
Onto the cutting table

The scrunch, scrunch, scrunch
Of the scissor

Slowly developing three dimensions
Fingers smooth warm seams

The slide of silk over my shoulders
As I slip it on

SUMMER

Sun
Sand
Sea
Salt
Surf
Shower
Soon
To Sleep
What’s
Next

HORIZONTAL

The staccato

Beat

Of the strobe

Of the light

Through the trunks

Of the trees

On the slope

As I drive

The winding road

The blinding flash

Of white

When I come

To a stop

THE LONG HOT SUMMER

Ends
In a downpour
Of water
And words

Sun
Hits
Warm wet dirt
Vapors rise
Grass glistens
Scents
Permeate

Grapes swell
Figs burst
Chimneys
Smoke

Chill
Creeps
Skin crawls

Light glows

LATE NOVEMBER

Ground Ginger
Saffron
Cinnamon
Dried Parsley
Turmeric
Cayenne
Nutmeg
Ground pepper

From ancient kitchens
Hot
Spots
Of savoury light

As the glow fades
For the winter hillsides

SEPTEMBER

A fat black fig

A frosted violet plum

A firm gold ear

Of sweet American corn,

That goes splush.

Round hard cherry tomatoes

Ripening in the

Hot

Sun.

I imagine one

Squirt

In my mouth.

THE GARDENER

Irrepressible, insatiable
You sow your seed incessantly.
We strive ensemble
To process
The love of your labor.

SLICE OF LIFE

Blood red
On my hands
Seeps
Between my fingers and
Stains

The knife
Slides so easily
Through the warm flesh,
As I slice
Your magnificent
Sweet
Beets

YOUR SALAD

Bitter radicchio
Peppery rocket
Ripped

Crisp scarola
Spinach raw
Torn

Blanketed in sweet balsamic
Savored with salt
And olive oil
Tossed

Aroused by the scent
Of black pepper
Crushed

Obsessed with food
You indulge my appetite

Obsessed with thought
My mind wanders

I WOKE

Now I lay me down to sleep
I Pray the Lord my soul to keep

Goes the child’s prayer

If I die before I wake
I pray the Lord my soul to take

Gave me great pause

If ever you forgot
To say
See you in the morning
I was terrified
It would be my turn

How was I to know
It was yours

Shooting in the Dark

your first son has a three hundred piece collection hoping he can assail the pain of your memory and your second son keeps searching for you in a series of mothers for his children and I baptised my son, who was himself born on your lost husband's, his grandfather's birthday, and consecrated a chapel in Tuscany that same date in late May when, 39 years ago, at point blank range you, blonde beauty, life of the party, last woman standing, too bright, bored stiff, prize winning horse woman and expert marksman, were guaranteed not to miss.

To Barga

with love.