Present and Past
When walking through the white rows of the blooms
Behind my bungalow, I see the sgùrr [1]
Across the Great Rift Valley. In my rooms
I have my huddled books. No smell of myrrh
Is brought to breathing from those pages, yet
They resurrect the past. The roses’ white
Is innocent of any kind of threat
And at the edge of Kenyan valley’s night
The blossoms still are perfect in the moon’s
Full light. Without good reason, though, I turn
To volumes waiting. In the present’s noons
I felt content to let the sunlight burn
My blond man’s skin, but now I want the past
To cool in books, that time both calm and vast.
Andalusian Guitars near Nakuru
My garden gathers round my house beside
That ancient gash far larger than the gods
Of Grecian times. The garden is a tide
Of fragrance, sights, and colors much at odds
With present conflicts, men with pangas, sticks,
And guns. The fragrances surround me. They
Are melodies in snatches, more like tricks
Of symphonies, at least a little spray
Of attar from composers’ bars. Perfumes
Are music for the nose, a repertoire
Chanel would envy. In my bookish rooms
The windows hold out every pulsing scar.
..Life’s cares gaze in at me through metal bars,
….As wistfully as ghosts who lost memoirs.
[1] Scottish Gaelic for a hump on top of a hill.