A Mandate

To all intents he was a tender gardener.
He turned the soil, secured the trellis
to the wall, and twined the tendrils

of the seedling sweet-peas through it
as they grew; yet he himself was up
and gone before the hawthorn was in bloom,

and heading westwards (the candles
of the sweet-peas flickered out and died)
and then still west and west again

until it came to him some flowers he passed
he'd never seen before, like this small yellow one:
with something of the poppy to it,

but only half the size, yet not a celandine.
And the birds, even the little brown birds,
he couldn't name: it was a locale

rinsed of the accretions of habit,
of innuendo, even of surmise; somewhere
waiting to be seen for what it is;

as if Adam had been allowed back into Eden
with a pocket full of labels, and a mandate
that he re-enchant the world.

Copyright © 2003 Neil Curry All rights reserved
from The Road to the Gunpowder House
Enitharmon Press/Dufour Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission