find me a garden
I find in you the space to turn and swing,
and slowly wing the poem to its end.
Each stopping place along the way slakes
the thirst, and sings the traveller to its knees.
Find me a garden, and I will go there – she
says – I want to know the heart of you.
Every carapace shields the tender centre;
every hummock makes the journey longer.
Yet, you lie open as the uncluttered plain –
the bones, the blood, the heat, the sand.
I come to you to gather the quiet refuge
of my words, to utter the beat of the heart.
And now, turning inward, to return, return
again, let’s leave the poem where it ends.