Bower
Penelope Shuttle
I often admire
the ruins of my bower –
hedgebroom, dwarf birch,
green alder,
willows, thrift,
yellow-horned poppy
Where I close a door
in order to study doors,
their place
in the miracle of light
Where I hold my breath
in order to study breath,
its power over me
Where, like a saviour sibling,
I turn from the price on my head
to study an hourglass,
learning
what time loves –
the great libraries,
Patmos, Dublin,
Seville, Morrab, Venice
Where I travel here and there
in the twilight zone of the past,
Danae and Perseus
bound in the seaborne chest,
Azanor also castaway
with her boy,
the saint-to-be
I often admire the ruins
of my burnt-out bower
where sometimes I see you
at the helm
setting sail for Spain,
or, later, pondering
the ancient crabbed salt-stained script
of the Captain’s log
in your bower-like cabin
on the good ship Eye of The Wind…
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