Wednesday, 24 February 2016

Orange

Slept well; thanks perhaps to a generous libation of orange-flower water. – Andre Gide, Journal, 23 November 1912.

Sand martins
enact meticulous flips

before abruptly torpedoing
into their nest-hole

on the island famed
for botanical gardens

laid out and nurtured
by an Ulsterman named McClintock

who avoided internment or worse
because the Fascists adored his azaleas.

When the sun breaks orange
over the Lepontine Alps,

I will board the ferry
at the lido

and stand with my legs akimbo
as the boat jigs over the wavelets.

Halfway across to Isola Seme,
I’ll hand on the note.

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