The shadows of the outdoor plants I have watered
hang on the white-washed wall of my cottage and
their flowers are closing like a woman who does not
fancy her beau....yet makes a shadowy presence as
not to let him down too harshly - this is because flowers
and women always think they have to be nicer than
they need to be - as the sun fades, the lover wonders
where he went wrong, too much water, drowning
them in his ardour to see a rose in its total splendour;
the succulence and conclusion of primeval longings.
From every corner of the universe, night seeps in, as
he walks on a sandy lane that makes his footsteps
insignificant....muted like he should not exist more.
Old gardener wonders if he has lived too long and
roses display themselves for someone else’s delight.