At the Foot of the Valley

by Jonathan Skinner

of the garden not accessible from the sea
cleft of tree ferns and shaving brush palms
sheltered from the winds of Fig Bay we fall
into dreams the continents are shifting
as bare attention reveals a manifold

sadness of the whiteness of the north
tagged old mediterranean villas
cacti accordion folding themselves
neighborhoods bleak beyond ocean
movements mysterious in disguises

a garden for one two or three it was
a paradise this too passes as plants
seek out their walled refuge are not
planted sheltered from drought and war
from the hell of a raft on open seas

paradise in the past not future tense
for every eden ruins an elsewhere
even gardens leave footprints as plants
crawl onto land go upright hitch rides
take flight with wings open parachutes

in arborescent euphorbia flowering
sphere of stars garden warbler squeaks
below Chilean altitudes the sun
sets past bromeliads serrated layers
opening vistas to seas spring is autumn

summer the winter of fire gardens
at dalliance in rills amidst fragrances
of dry Provence sonorous dells patterns
decorating tongues and lips of common
stay-at-home dreams I nightmare

off her body as one slides off a chair
extinguishing alien life-forms
the impossibly far amour de loin
lie of the desire that knows itself
passing straight from love to speech

to learned desire chirping beacon sweet
stitch in time no cunning goes the way
of golden-tongued eyes lips smoky gaze
pervasive as the scent of frisia a quiet
zone of excess envelops the soul

— Domaine du Rayol, 2 April 2018