Queen of the Sun

She is the Queen of the Sun as she stoops and kneels
To knead clods of earth, to crumble and dig
So that soil finds and forces under finger nails

In this earthen bed she finds solace alone
And works a connection long-felt; a binding
Strength which none other will replace or repair.

The soil-clad grace of palms and fingers
Work a magic with the Goddess: Ceres finding
Intimacy in buried seed and blessed roots

Framed by windows in shaded light from
The trembling ash, she rises like the lady
From the copper island but here loam and clay

Not salted waves bear her high, hair loosed.
Chipped nail polish forms a map of work
And passion orders space, colour, texture;

The work of hour, day, month and season
A cartography of time and growth
Hinged to our orbit ⎯ and angle,

As photons speed towards us, bringing
Wave upon wave of energy and warmth
To coax the kernel and caress the bud.

This is her home, her comfort zone, like
No other, set apart but conjoined in atavistic
Bliss; no nuptial bond but deeper still

The soil finds her in heat and downpour; as
Autumnal winds lash branches, and more, in snow
And frost. There she finds the growing will

To live; to witness birth, death and the resurrection
Of green shoot and flower head as bees climb
Stamens and probe with over-long tongues

To find nectar, the ambrosia of life, to bind and
Secure the cycle by which she ⎯ and we ⎯ live and die.
The secret is in the soil; the garden, the site

Of man’s pleasure and betrayal. The apple and snake
A tail of enduring hate. But I have seen her 
Turn lines to curves; and the corpse of a crow 

To blossom. My ancestors smile at this. As if there
Could be no other, as a shared passion forever
Never dies, but like the Spring is resurrected

As time withers so too it heals and brings alive
The fruit of love; berries red and purple, like kisses
Moving over her body, touching her lips . . . .

Giles H. Sutherland