JAN OWEN
Freesias
Two sceptics at odds may cancel out
like minus signs, to say Why doubt?
See where I’ve planted the Snowdon corms
between the stones. Too shallowly: the leaves
splay out, bent to a world of wind,
we tread the green flames unawares.
September will turn us – Ah! Japanese,
the air round their creamy cups spreading a covenant,
Sadness-Joy. Like wind chimes touching the edge of song,
or a small high window’s mouthful of sky.
Breathe in their fragrance now,
the rush of yes but, if, maybe,
till the ghostly sacs of the lungs swell out
and airiest Other floods the brain. You too, Martin,
come back into the sun, I have picked you a percept, here –
a straggly bouquet of Being, quite unconcealed,
and it knows you, bronchiole and cell,
it is soothing the labyrinth to a safety net,
calming the rivers of blood as they leave and arrive.
Would you say it’s beyond the play of beyond,
this scent – the hint of a universe drifting apart
like philosophy’s fine dissolve?
Almost unbearable sweetness anyway.
Almost thought.