John Garth Raubenheimer (21/12/1947 / Johannesburg)
York - in a swallow-tailed May.
Opalescent clouds kept infinity at bay
but not the sun. Stippled vapour trails,
fleecy, fleeting, hung in the bowl of milk
- upside-down yet miraculously unspilt -
like straws for terrestrial gods to suck.
We were invited to lunch on a tablecloth of air
which, if it was stained with a petulance of smoke,
bore the intransigent chimneys no grudge.
No grudge. We could have shouted love;
you nestled seedlings in yogurt pots
salvaged from the bin, sliced-up egg cartons -
kneecaps cartilaged with compost;
I combed the past for curses, I found none.
Came the fragilest of evenings, I said,
'that was one of the loveliest - '
'Days, yes, ' you said, 'it was.'
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Consummation by John Garth Raubenheimer )
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