The Sweet Sound Of Basil

It must have felt woefully out of place

like the refugee placing a bowl of water safely

on his windowsill, front row seats

the spectacle: the moon reflects a stolen

memory

 

Also peculiar, the soul whose words want

so badly, but don’t answer to the self-portrait of

kings, whilst these fingertips understandably

caress: the land cannot belong, the land longs to be

rooted

 

That’s how we became the gardener and his basil

green power in between

Our sound is loud and clearly

wickedly misplaced.

 

(My only son K, wrote this poem)