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2.
The steep walls twist - nowhere is not enclosed,
but over these ramparts hidden gardens are escaping:
although only their trees can be seen and the
ungraspable glimpse taunts through narrow grilles
creepers spill over wild as waterfalls
and tiny flowers claw rootholds in the stone.
By this buttress the air swells with growing
its fragrance overwhelms the walled-up world
seeding its pores, crevices, parched mouths
with promises, enough for being made.
She is beautiful, her eyes are bright. Without a word
at the turning of the lane, she touches his arm.
3.
What is dead a thousand years?
her voice rises through the stone.
Under the bush a lizard shuddered
The cisterns are cracked, the walls are broken
Webs flower over every opening and path
Thorns scourge her, stones open her way
Her voice is the one thing alive
all I hear in the thousand years.
They moved from the mountain to the island shore
from the island to the unprotected bay,
their houses are rough gardens of rock and gorse
the past has sunk into soil.
The dead are only dead when they die
after that they become other things:
useless to talk of being dead, of being not being
for thousands of years.
No-one watches us. The world too is dying.
Lift sunlit lips to the shadow of my face.
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