The Herb Gardener Talks of Basil

She calls it the corpse plant
with its cloven flowers
and cloying sweetness.
I sprinkle it on floors
to discourage flies
and still the mind.
She says it only grows
on the wings of a curse,
whispered as it's sown
in fresh turned earth.
I cure stomach aches
and monthly cramps
with its infusion.
She says it will not flourish
in this northern land,
where frost is intolerant
to its need of warmth.
I have built glass shelters here
where the sun can rest for
more than half a day, new shoots
are pushing through.
She's suspicious of my herb seeds,
brought on galleys up the estuary,
from Rome,to this outcrop.
I offer her bay leaves for luck;
imagine her unclothed
between lavender-scented sheets,
her coarse skin soothed
wth oil of olives,
resin of sweet juniper
burning on a charcoal coil.

She drops the plant at my feet,
strides away before
our hands can meet,
towards her ragged hills
which rise like waves
towards the sky.