Judy Gahagan
Gathering Artichoke Flowers
It was in abandoned gardens below high ramparts
the artichokes were flowering, their last
throes the colour of the end of a febrile era,
purple, over-wrought, the way, with words, I turn
just simple things to a melting pot of troubles.
So I clambered, risking vipers, up to them,
watched by two small boys pausing on their way
to lunch, cool terracotta floors, to imperturbable
mothers slicing lemon for rabbit in bianco.
I bring these hysterical artichokes to glare
and seethe for me in the twilight of my room,
while my words cool down for these last days.
Page(s) 34
magazine list
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