Sport 3: Spring 1989
Michael Mintrom
Michael Mintrom
The Small Garden
Think of this site as
you might think of the world.
(Finger a globe
with your eyes closed.)
This is the warm planet you'll
return to. A resting spot
you'll grow wise in, as
the years shape a comfortable
lover from your body.
When you sit here
with the sun on your palms,
imagine other gardens
through time.
It's strange the power this place
allows you, even when
you're dressed like autumn.
You'll turn the earth,
you'll dream of the harvest,
and at spring, the soil
will warm as you touch it.
I can see you now
on fine mornings,
rising early
to join the ecstasy —
Your small garden.
The Purple House, From Above
It's a small mauve gift.
The sky-writing aviatrix,
if she glances down between letters,
might think of it this way.
Dropped on the tall yellow grain,
and nobody about.
She'd like to be alone in her room
and open it slowly.
I look at the garden,
imagine what the aviator sees.
When I look at the roses,
I see six child choristers
dressed in red cassocks with
ruffles around their necks.
I love their song, their hymn.
I feel alive, and the sky is aviatrix blue.
She won't hear it. And, anyway,
she's gone.
We look up again and see
smoke circles fade.
I think of possible words;
they're gifts I open, slowly.
Dr Hester's Instruction
She was famous for her mathematics
her hand-painted shirts and her
high laughter. When, like a satellite,
her chalk searched the blackboard space,
the students gazed, silent. It was as if
a re-entry was taking place.
A crew of astronauts, so delicate,
would be slowly tracing the asymptote,
approaching the discontinuity,
the point where they could either
lose everything
or shine.
She never felt lost. For her, the chalk
was only an outward expression. The code,
the love song and not the love.
And love, she said, is warm light.
Place it left of the equals sign,
a balance for infinity