and a day on a stolen horse,

till I reached the tip

of the century and the lip of the next – it was nix to me

to start again with a new name, a stranger to fame.

Which was how I came to this small farm,

the love of my life

on my arm, tattooed on my wrist,

where we have cows and sheep and hens and geese

and keep good bees.

Virgil’s Bees

Bless air’s gift of sweetness, honey

from the bees, inspired by clover,

marigold, eucalyptus, thyme,

the hundred perfumes of the wind.

Bless the beekeeper

who chooses for her hives

a site near water, violet beds, no yew,

no echo. Let the light lilt, leak, green

or gold, pigment for queens,

and joy be inexplicable but there

in harmony of willowherb and stream,

of summer heat and breeze,

each bee’s body

at its brilliant flower, lover-stunned,

strumming on fragrance, smitten.

For this,

let gardens grow, where beelines end,

sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;

where bees pray on their knees, sing, praise

in pear trees, plum trees; bees

are the batteries of orchards, gardens, guard them.

Rings

I might have raised your hand to the sky

to give you the ring surrounding the moon

or looked to twin the rings of your eyes

with mine

or added a ring to the rings of a tree

by forming a handheld circle with you, thee,

or walked with you

where a ring of church-bells

looped the fields,

or kissed a lipstick ring on your cheek,

a pressed flower,

or met with you

in the ring of an hour,

and another hour …

I might

have opened your palm to the weather, turned, turned,

till your fingers were ringed in rain

or held you close,

they were playing our song,

in the ring of a slow dance

or carved our names

in the rough ring of a heart

or heard the ring of an owl’s hoot

as we headed home in the dark

or the ring, first thing,

of chorusing birds

waking the house

or given the ring of a boat, rowing the lake,

or the ring of swans, monogamous, two,

or the watery rings made by the fish

as they leaped and splashed

or the ring of the sun’s reflection there …

I might have tied

a blade of grass,

a green ring for your finger,

or told you the ring of a sonnet by heart

or brought you a lichen ring,

found on a warm wall,

or given a ring of ice in winter

or in the snow

sung with you the five gold rings of a carol

or stolen a ring of your hair

or whispered the word in your ear

that brought us here,

where nothing and no one is wrong,

and therefore I give you this ring.

Invisible Ink

When Anon, no one now,

knew for sure the cu and koo

he spelled from his mouth