longing

Every summer solstice 
I dream of an open-air 
hill-top terrace paved 
by Gaudi's daughter
with wildly coloured 
earthenware and gems
collected from the ocean's 
ancient floor.
The treasure
and everyday items
from many ships,
dashed to pieces
centuries before,
now breathe again
beneath my feet.

   A table for two rests
      on this elaborate mosaic
    in the midst
   of an exotic garden.
        A vast expanse of water 
            glistens on my left, stretching
         as far as the eye can see.
   In every other direction 
   the most marvellous landscapes 
 shimmer in the sun.
    The panorama changes
    from essentially Australian, 
  to Elysian, to a collage 
 of South America & somewhere
   in an English myth, 
     or it might become Africa
   as imagined by Cynthia 
  Nolan and Rimbaud,
      or Scandinavia 
  with a dash of the sub-Antarctic,
    and every once in a while
  there are surreal 
  encounters of time, 
 space and textual media
 as pages & canvases
 are remembered
          and reinvented, 
            to merge with the light 
        and life in which 
I am immersed.

The plants in the hill-top garden 
are different every year. 
Sometimes there are large 
leafy trees, sometimes there is lavender 
and honeysuckle, or there might be lilies 
and love-in-the-mist, or cornflowers, 
or poppies and freesias, and the reddest 
blood-red tulips, fields and fields of sunflowers, 
tall and radiant and strong, and there are,
occasionally, orange trees and mangoes 
and wildly effervescing orchids,
or so many roses that the fragrance 
makes me weak with joy 
at the generous extravagance of it all.  

             And then I imagine the chairs.  
           There are only ever two - 
     one for God and one for me.  
Sometimes they are the deepest green 
       with finely engraved markings 
   that reveal the bronze beneath.  
       And the cushions have a thick nap 
       of blue-black-purple 
  and tassels of real gold.  
 Tiny petals of scarlet silk 
  have been carefully sewn 
        around the edges, 
    and at the centre 
  of each bloom 
   is a single sequin of fragile jet.  
   The tablecloth is plush velvet 
  and, again, it is green, but variegated 
 so that it might really be moss.  
  The fringe is soft as it brushes 
   against my legs.  
  The cloth is finely embroidered 
 and appliqued with words 
and images that are so beautiful 
  & so personal 
 that I can hardly bear the care 
that has gone into this setting.  
  I gaze at episodes from my life 
 transformed into the art of the cloth.  
 I see animals and fish and birds 
 and everything I have ever loved 
   on the earth; 
    and the sky and angels 
     and all of the heavens are there; 
  and there are lines of poetry 
 that have been finely woven into the fabric - 
they shine with meanings 
  that transport me 
 to dreamscapes from my past, 
 and my future,
   and some that are so current,
so full of this very moment,
 that I never want to leave their presence.  

 h e a d   The large round cups 
 are almost translucent.  
  Their "full moon" surface 
    is overlaid with mother of pearl. 
 The saucers are indigo-navy 
 and made of a sea-shell 
I've never seen before.  
     They're so finely crafted 
      and seem like fragile china, 
   but I know they are not.  
    The tea smells wonderful - 
 of cinnamon and fine tobacco 
and some other fragrance 
 that eludes me.  
  Scones, steaming with heat, 
lay nestled in a cotton cloth.
 The cream is thick and fresh, 
and almost the colour of mutant
   albino rainbow trout. Jam, full 
 of ripe strawberries, 
 has been piled into a silver bowl,
       engraved with nimbs
   & children, with the sun
and all her sisters. 
     Another overflows 
with dark cherry conserve.  

My heart beats expectantly.
Someone is walking towards me
through this day of endless blue.
And I know it is God.
My sigh of relief
is so immense
as to make it seem
that an entire ocean
has inhabited my being
and, after drawing back,
now breaks upon the shore.

Diane Caney, 2000
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