July 2005.(Poem)

 
JULY 2005 
 
   1 
 
   Now is the time that saffron flowers flare 
   from courgette plants, the males on thin stalks, 
   the females tailed to small swellings. And here 
   beneath hairy umbrellas, ready to be picked, 
   solid as a baby's head, magical as moon: 
   a yellow globe on the rain-sweetened ground. 
 
   Cupping its roundness, I stare at the white stone 
   block towering a mile away. What kind 
   of minds plotted, hatched and concealed bombs 
   in one of its flats? Stunned, I sit by the bed 
   where oregano has run wild among 
   feverfew, fennel, compressed sunflower heads, 
   where butterflies hover, where nothing's numb. 
   Then it dawns: surfeit is ...