A dry June
and roses and honeysuckle
tumble in riotous flower
down the path, below the gate,
in anticipation of drought.
They rush slowly
(keeping vegetable time)
towards the battlefield
of fern and bramble
which flows,
inconclusively,
to the cliff edge.
Beyond, the sea.
The mind takes on the colour
of what it shines through.
What it shines through
are the products of mind itself
from all our yesterdays.
This is the dance
of the mind
with its creations
(eternity with the products of time);
a slow and formal cosmic dance
to the silent music of the void.
This wonderful and mechanistic dance
flows on because the dancers
are somnambulant.
Who will wake them?
The Palm trees
have flowered
for the first time;
pushing ungainly spikes
skywards
in sprays of flowers like jasmine.
Paint a tiger
on the wall.
Turn and run
(in case it catches you).
.
