Garden Muse

I danced the wonders of the lawn
sun inspired by
the trembling blades
leaning on all sides of me.
Through wandering heather-hung hills
gray-greased castle walls
two story buses and all,
I let my tongue and head wander
only allowing them to speak by way of
the caves crawling into my eyes.
While quietly scribbling their sights
by the callousness of hill-climbing feet,
I reside from the hardened translators
to press my fork into fried tomatoes chips and pavement
to taste the touch of a sunny day
where my back hangs alongside a willow tree.
Sticking to the follicles leaping
from the cracks in my browning skin
the city writes its rhythmic spell before me
to conger cast and curse
a belly never satisfied
with neither hunger nor feast.
While mademoiselle memory holds
her black hair back
at the edge of the road,
on a spiked iron fence
my fresh reflections reside.
I wish to climb and greet them
but the bus is leaving soon
and the young physique of the madame
will surely captivate me
taking most of the remaining minutes.
In the coffee cup bubbles below,
I can see
my own ripening face;
no need for a mirror
when I can always look there
or over to the hazy sea.
Maybe I could even gaze
at the lush lawn
in tiny Nicholson Gardens
or the royal works of botany
steps from my door.
Hang on to the bucking bull
that is greasy American life my dear!
Whether you turn your head or not,
I assure you I will soon be there
to sop up the fat
with a spire-laden Scottish sponge.
I do hope-
between cobbled alley-ways-
that along the long stretch of screaming roads
mademoiselles joy and memory
are sharing a cab
to visit my underfoot under-stairs room,
where I bide my golden time
by way of the Firth of Forth.