on reading "Derek Jarman's Garden"

Speak to me, friend, long dead
though you are. Tell me of home
there by the sea, of how salt
killed the kale, but spared
the dog-rose. Red Admirals came
to you as they now come to me:
winged and fearless, never far
from our upturned palms.

We suffer a fever, some say,
of tragic proportions. Our sin
is the folly of Sappho, the grief
of Alexander. We are cousin
to mischief, you and I,
my departed brother. You gift
this world with thorny warp
and root-ridden weft.

The quiet house, my still heart,
your books on the table.

It is as if I never left.