2
Because I know this is an Italian garden ,
I see Mussolini speaking from the stone terrace .
Behind him, the pergola seems a corridor
less meant for roses than for long queues
of deportees . Wires strung between the columns
contain them in rows. Then suddenly,
the statues look amateur, too crude,
a ruse : cement bricks instead of soap cakes.
And are the birds metaphors
for planes or angels? Is the sun God
or a searchlight? The roses - some sort of ambush?
These manifestos kill the pink Rugosa.
3
Late afternoon soft-focuses the garden
with pollen . Now it is a photograph.
With its gardeners and tourists weeded out ,
one cannot guess the year or circumstance.
The drone of the highway beyond the fence
could be a thunderstorm or planes landing
at an aerodrome. Shadows trickle over
the green terraces. This could be peace .
Why must I feel like Nero fiddling when I praise
the fountain and the rose? The rose is neither
a fire engine nor the fire itself.
And neither are the birds' songs sirens .
Askold Melnyczuk
DOWNER FOREST ROAD
The fox lopes past
beebalm the blurred
hummingbird translates
from flower to flying
