Time attaches itself to things

turning moments into memory,

until the past and the future

flood the present

so you sit feeling

neither here nor there,

restless in bullying heat,

squinting at white sails

on glittering water

that won’t move when watched.

Rescued only when the blue hills darken

and you open the wine

and watch the gardener

with the stooped back

approach amongst the olive trees,

his dark skin glowing

darker in the dusk,

as he comes to unfasten the hose

and set about the terracotta pots,

just as he did yesterday evening

and, you imagine, every evening;

night after night

carefully untethering the hose

and stretching it across the flagstones

to flood the night flowers,

irises and lilies, cultivating growth

and bringing relief,  

one small gasp at a time.