During that slow hour after noontime, I abandon
sewing lavender scent bags and walk toward Cathkin Braes,
hoping to spy you. From the garden greenhouse
you amble towards me, increasing the heat
of slanting sunbeams, and shower me
with Persian roses scented with musk,
bunches of violet, passeflower, bluebottle and amaranth.
Moths with silvery scales flit between us,
their spiracles rising above the chimneys of Glasgow.
We hear a small bell tinkling from the branch
of an oak, where a mountain finch has constructed
a nest of moss, wool and dry grass,
lined it with delicate brown hair, most likely yours.
On the terrace we sip green tea
and eat chilled plums to cool off,
cupping each other’s hands like succulent leaves
craving moisture and light.
Originally published in Tiny Seed Journal.