It’s not the beauty of the hill
binds us on this path
by sedge and thistle, such a small path
stony, sharp; a path for
short encounters, yet we stand
and stand
breathless in the summer rain
1997
Old men on benches outstare tired marble
the rippling misery of one distressed
Adonis carved in mid-sigh, tortuous
among chrysanthemums. His head is bowed.
Perhaps he is allergic to chrysanthemums, wishes
to stroll the Systematic Garden
the Border Chronological
the Arboretum?
Old men know better. Huddled in damp warmth
this early Sunday morning, they have braved the wind
and found it wanting
The glass roof curves in onion splendour
green as unpicked fruit; light struggles
to diffuse through panes as thick
with mould as glass, swims greenly over foliage
preying on deep-sea lack of rays. No fish
fly here; a noisy sparrow shoals
I walk the gravel gravely
Behind me, children shout, escape into the inner swell
of palm and fern and moss, a green confusion
curdling frantic orders from the tired mother
stuck with the push-chair on the dripping stone
unable to pursue the restless feet that prowl
the quiet inner jungle
Statues are strange, the skin as smooth
the arms and legs and hair
as fall and free as if each figure breathed
caught in the endless moment of our choosing
and yet the eyes are empty:
do not choose the eyes
the fate that tempts those eyes. Pass on to note
the curling hair, the twisting abdomen
the torso thinned implausibly, the bending knees
the veined arms straining still to grip the marble base
or choose the toe
pointing towards the stone, the frozen stone
the next step over frozen water: choose that early moment
the child now bent on forward movement
without forward bias, her strength still all behind
the weight, the safety all behind: and yet the child intent
on forward movement
Choose that moment, note how heavily
the sheltering rock is built behind the child, not moving yet
set on a course as free as lack of movement
and all her strength so much behind
your child, your own child, pale as marble
weak as water on a split palm leaf; your own child
weaker than the water, set on movement
set on a forward course beyond the palms
No due momentum
without clear support, and you intent
on forward movement, lost in outer green
stranded on rain-damp stone
The jungle lives and breathes in glass. Without
the soaring skin, without this constant heat, the leaves
would die, the statues mimic catholic cemeteries
Italian marble, winged, the frozen smile
the sepia photograph
This jungle lives:
children hide and seek within its heart
Old men stare down visitors
1999