Dahlias

Afterwards she sat in the armchair
drawn close to the mortifying fire
her head on her knees
Solitude

the spitting coals
intimate crackle of tinder
light gutters on the ragged walls
The wick of the cinnamon sun snuffs

Now I shall walk the loam yard
for oval stones
rake level the old mother
in the last hour of light
and just under the earth sow
a pink dahlia
for a fair evening

OTAKOU

This is the fire of hawthorn spring
The river reeds whistling
The sun red-faced and blinking
Sand swiping at us

Lying in the dunes
picking purple sea-flowers

The waves wash
Perfect circumferences round us

Wind spins sand maelstroms
Under our tall salt evening shadows

Surf smashing a jagged coast
Long white cloud
in a broad sky
are compelling voices

In the hourglass stillness before dark
We have regained an innocence

Under the chaste southern stars
Cold crystalline silence
       Stings in our ears

RITES

for Lord Ganesh

After the ceremonies

A child eats scattered flowers

on the steps to the water

Watching a shadow cast

on a gate locked shu

The river looks wistful now

This is a time of pardon

The moon is being born

slowly rising a hungry face

out of a cloud

Her image wobbles in the river

Then a dry wind blows hard

reviving the embers of a fire

Now the steps have softened

A holy man cups the river

in ash smeared hands

His yellow garland tapping the water

In the twilight

Temple bells are spreading tales

of man and god married

Men are launching

frail paper boats

that crisp with fire

and sink crackling in the water

It is lightly raining

You can hear the river’s ancestral spirit purling