This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.


I rose in the mountains this morning,
walked down to find flowers being watered
before the worst of this midsummer heat.

Even at so low an angle, the sun sent me
into the shade of a nearby willow tree,
where I sat just outside the circumference
of circling sprinklers and simply watched.

There were a hundred temporary rainbows
rising from each rosebush every round
as if the garden were revealing
what it really is, and how it breathes
in endless colour, the whole spectrum
on show: from deep crimson, to the seven-fold
palette of playful water, to the serene spirit
of icebergs, echoing those three white flags
and their surrender to the smell
of borehole water and all the blooming
beauty beautifully mixed in one
more moment I have been woken up.




Rainbow roses