Love-in-a-mist

When you are gone
I walk the hills in the changing
robes of fog without letup,
pick the last love-in-a-mist,
tell my sadness
to the careless eyes of dusk.

When night falls, I hasp
my windows fast against
the silky spiderwebs afloat,
see the moon caught in a net,
when I fish for dreams.

How soon will the wind rattle
my memories and the blue nigella
wound through the silver thistles?
Their seeds are so fine, I could sprinkle
a field of sky and sow the aroma of Persia

into these light blue dreams
that you would find, if you came home,
as parched as my dried out capsules
set alight with your match...