Moving on from the north

in the new millennium, with rolls of film,

a sure eye and a crate of seedlings,

Veronica settled herself in Fitzroy;

strewn with leaves shaped like Canada,

and symbols of the eco conscious,

bullied into a corner – filling for cheap coverlets.

Etched on her thighs are established ciphers

of belief, their shadows held fast,

on kitchen chairs in the Leonard Cohen style.

Seedpods, bark and blooms are recorded

in her sketch book, thick with expectation

and dated in reference to the moon’s phases

or astrological arrangement, her own

orrery with planets fixed in copper rings.   
She keeps the seasons close;

mementos catalogued, tied up in black

inked pictographs down her chest

or hand-crafted envelopes pressed with petals.

Behind toilet door, in amber light

of salt lamp, insects of the order Odonata

are pinned – machines in formation

on paper aircraft carrier.

When street lights limn silhouettes

with phosphorescence,

masters of photosynthesis and fecundity

unfold shadows, spilling maps

of ancient rivers and their tributaries.

She traces these spectres

with lipstick over 1960’s wallpaper:

felt diamonds, or gold floral.  Using the fork

of a confluence to gain purchase

she moves to the ceiling to capture

her weightlessness and fear – a night garden hangs,

held by threads, perfect as a major fifth.
Her biography, left like evidence

in a Seoul police box; of button-quail,

baskets woven from raspberry cane, and boots

laced with vine, draws her back

to the borrowed light before sun arrives.

In the laundry; beakers, burner, tubes,

distil oils from citrus and flowers.

Plumes of cirrus flow into bottles;

russet, Polish blue or clear as rain.

So with fresh bergamot massaged into her scalp

and ylang-ylang burning on kitchen sill,

Veronica collects information on seasons

watching from Adirondack for the first

of the morning bees, tattooed with braille,

wings splashing behind dark eyes.