From The Garden of Eternal Poets

i.m. Fleur Adcock 1934-2024

Woke up with a sore head. Much drinking on Po Toi Island.

After the Exhibition of Lingering Fragrance
I picked up the message in Kowloon.
Fleur’s been diagnosed with brain cancer.

Spent the morning gazing at objects from the Forbidden City.
I wept for the woman in the Garden of Sorrow.
Dressed in brocade woven with peacock-feather and gold.
Clutching Plum Blossom.
The Emperor composing love poems.
Sung in the Hall of Harmony by the imperial turtles.

I’m sending by spiritual airways a gift to East Finchley:
sandalwood and juniper and skullcap
and honeysuckle and myrrh and Chinese patchouli.

Fleur’s being ushered into The Garden of Eternal Poets.
The Emperor’s releasing the celestial dove.
Only now can I lift my head. I’m sending love, love, love.

Last Days

In the last days of Rome, the heat throbbing, throbbing –
I shall make my way to La Vecchia Conca

in Via Carlo Alberto. The old waiter – Gianni – saying:
Fa caldo Signore. Fa caldo. Yes, it’s very hot Gianni.

Pasta with asparagus I shall eat
followed by a small bowl of sorbetto al mandarino.

When Gianni asks How was the sorbetto?
I shall say, It was sublime Gianni. It was utterly sublime.