Freely from Su Tung Po


A soft evening breeze has filled
the room with incense and begonias.
Moonbeams, thick as chalk-dust,
have made their way through the bamboo blinds.

The boy I have just met has fallen asleep.
Nervously, I light a perfumed candle
and hold within my gaze his naked beauty.


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I inherited quite a few books from a colleague who retired in the late 90s. In one poetry anthology I came across a version of this poem complete with a few lines she pencilled in. The notes were, I think, written in bed with her husband. If memory serves me well, the last line of my poem is a direct reworking of hers.