That hue of light you find on a summer afternoon
when a rain storm batters the gardens, stitches the heavy river.
Like dusk but not.
You and I in a room set with windows overlooking that river.
A room panelled with large mirrors, long smoky mirrors
whose foxed glass reflects our dusky selves, maybe our ghosts.
And inbetween – the window seats and views of a flowing
That this 17th century pavilion, built for privacy and banquets,
could have been where voyages were planned, trade calculated
and profit, much profit, inbetween the laughter.
That the elaborate maze-like gardens that surround this pavilion
are where people wandered talking,
are where we will soon wander in a fine rain
unaware of anything beyond, caught in the moment’s delight
as we weave our way through the flower beds, the sunken
the arched corridors of wysteria, pergolas of laburnum,
honey scented lime walks, our myths and histories laid aside.
Floating in any century, timeless, we romantically imagine.
If the myths were put aside, and we… ?
Would the mirrors be clear and glitter? a rainbow
flickering on their bevelled edges? I doubt it.
“So what are you going to do
with the rest of your life?”
From Painted, Spoken No 6 (2003)