Scottish poet Evie Ford has lived mostly in Italy for forty years (seven in Paris, one in New York). Her time is now divided between Rome and a large garden in Umbria. She taught English language in universities in Rome and a grande école in Paris.
This year’s very dry July
hands among wasps and white butterflies
you seize a handful of stalks,
clip close to the bush, come up with
huge armfuls of strong scent and softness.
Three of us working as usual,
the pergola table stacked high,
talk of men and their failings,
or where to get olive oil cheap,
and long stretches maybe
of only clipping and birdsong.
The abandoned stalks will serve for fire lighting
and the flowers fill baskets or jars
for distilling or tincture or oil.
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