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the television carries what passes for news
through the french windows the carcoal glows white,
the birds tweet as they nest

a rather pleasant red slips down

its common sense
Putin is a gangster, he hates gays
a red tzar, who shoots dogs

so in return for America selling Europe gas
Ukraine agrees to kick out the Chinas
pay full price take on loans from us

I'm sitting in the garden
the birds are siting
the red wine slips down nicely
and for no no reason
the name
Omar Bakri Muhammed
comes to mind

It might be the radio
droning in the background
or
the announcement
that the US is about to ship
the gas it is currently
flaring
to Europe

but my mind wanders
back to 1982
when the poor little rich kid
got caught up in the nastiness
and found his faith wanting

personally
I couldn't give a monkies
if oil is sold in dollars or yuan
but
there are people who do
and they have reasons
just as I have red wine

so poor old bakri
runs for his life
and finds
sanctuary of sorts
among the non drinkers
the political
the vegetarians
and the well fed

tucked into the lea of the bank
we share a thermos and the water pot
each with our own view of the scene
of what matters and what does not

with broad brush strokes
I skim the sky catching the clouds
in their skittering race

she picks at the trees
the worn grey church tower
a red car long since passed

she wears a white sun hat, gentility,
personified by her printed summer
dress of blue and lilac anemones.
and the watercolour pad on her knees.

Sabina finds me reading Rilke,
in the lower meadow by the stream.
Again and again I have come here
to paint the little Luthern chapel
but I cannot catch the light.

She brings her mother's regards
and a small cake, which she cuts
with my pocket knife. Stabbing
the crumbs with our finger tips
we read Autumn Day, on the rug,

our bodies almost touching.
The paper curls in the breeze
pinned by the smudged and bloodied
watercolours, in their wooden box.
The water jar sits safe in my shoe.

Angels in the churchyard
turn their backs, as naked
we splash and prance in the stream.
The sunlight runs like spring rain
upon our bodies. But we are not children.

No one is young. For high above,
silver geese fly in formation,
heading south; their reflection
obscured by the brilliance
of our glistening laughter.