Sunday, April 27, 2008


I thought it a summer twilight,
this green pool of light,

flowers brightly swimming
and all alight, a snail kiss

the skin caught dipping,
some day-curved tripper

worn muddy, who made nudists
frolic in a frog-dipped oasis

bees dizzy in a hum spinning
a broken twig for a drum

noised drone in trusty tune
and perfumed herbs

from potted moons.

No charge for bird-bath covered
gatecrashing parties of sparrows

mid-flight, and fighting mynahs
incredible cackle

an incredible waffle.


It may not have been Goa
nor the garden gate

where birdling caterers

- with tasty insect crates
here in the arabian oasis,

where a shy hedgehog hides
as sly as i spy and pry -


A Certain Garden Spoke

"Strange it is how a fountain
of images, like the rush of a comet.

rocket from the bottom of our
imagination, as if never it lay

burrowed; but were having us on
       as a lark."


And then like children
into a garden, we ran

forgotten in its lost
golden sand and search

for toy, book, or friend
where once we missed

the straggly end
of a tired meadow below:

this show suddenly still.
pretty and hoping

for darkness to shroud
its talons around us

like a curtain of mist
and graciously surrender

that which we shoulder
in tearaway affection.


Blissful our garden
as you follow its echo

"Come in, come in",

     our garden says

"Back to your honeyed
days and all raisin-ed

       for a party.."

..where already, our
hands wait to catch

the rusted knob once
more: will remember how

to bow light-sorrow, dust
from the hollow of a vast

sea of many books looking
safe as yummy tea and

pluck a sad flower-stalk
rooting beneath the bower



Susan Abraham

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