About the poet
John Moat (b. 1936, India) is best known as a co-founder of the Arvon Foundation, and not as the...
In touch with the grass, my forehead, and the smell
Up from the rooted earth, from deep, from the deep well,
Bled from rock, and far side the scent of her I keep
Coming back to, that scent of earth when I can no longer tell
Is it earth, is it an aroma, is it the reek of sunlight
Say, or maybe a mushroom, the underflesh, the oil on sheep
Wool, musk oil, a base oil, a fast breeder, a starter, like in a heap
When the rot becomes sweetness, like breath held until
The flavour is all of her, only now she’s been reduced to light,
A bit part of light, like the drench of light sleep,
Then waking, then the after-sleep, still in the clinch of night,
This gilead of happiness able to uncap the cell,
Have the honey brim, and brim its flavour of fire, make the leap
From light to light, out of nowhere into everywhere, by sleight
Of being: behind scent beyond taste beneath sound out of touch out of sight.
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