October Poem - Foreign Exchange

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Foreign Exchange

Hands plunged in earth, bent at the waist,
he stood – an inverted Atlas –
the gardener, of ambiguous status,
never seen hatless.

He’d be there at the start
of the day, maybe since dawn.
Shutters would open to frame
him, as if he’d been born

of a dream: an enigma.
Our villa’s absent host
seemed embodied in him,
this genial ghost

who vanished at noon.
Quick, dark eyes in the nest
of his head would blink, then dart
off, and alight on you - test

your reactions. If trusted,
you’d be led down to the grotto,
through a door in the garden wall.
Listen to the echo’s motto:

‘Dulce est desipere in loco’.
Slow-fade seconds leach
away the visitor’s disbelief.
Your skin flakes from the sun’s bleach

as the peeling-plaster vault
snows on the mosaic floor.
Here water-nymphs play hopscotch
without keeping score.

They have nothing to give in return
for garlands, or tributes paid:
their whims are as transient
as the shifting shade

of the trellis, but our venture’s
not wasted. The leaven
of laughter and richness of lavender
make all our odds even.

The shedding of layers was not
loss: the wasp’s carapace
found enmeshed in the vine
was fine as inherited lace.

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This page contains a single entry by GeNoMe published on October 13, 2004 12:20 AM.

Those Who Died for their Country was the previous entry in this blog.

Nine Songs - Poor Movie is the next entry in this blog.

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