Patricia Wellingham-Jones

The Grotto

Next to the road amid burned oaks,
seared dirt, a grotto stands. Its back
wall a lava rock high as a man's neck,
jagged, lichen-scorched
from recent fire. Side walls - piles
of the rough stone, cairns balanced
at the end of each wing. Inside the hollow
propped on a slab of cedar bark
flowers riot in red, orange, pink paint.
The Virgin of Guadalupe nestles
with photos in crevices. Rosaries, strings
of plastic flowers, toy trucks dangle.
A perch for ravens and quail, open
to wind and rain, the grotto calls forth memories
of all those who never returned home.

The Traveller

on "Fifty-three Stations of the Tokaido Road" by Ando Hiroshige (1834)

A man trudges uphill in the woodblock print,
conical hat of straw tied to his head.
His weariness shows in bare bowed legs. In his back.

 

Over his shoulder, the bamboo pole
heavy laden, odd shapes are tied
in figured wrapping cloth.

 

Behind him on a veranda resting, two men sip tea,
woman in kimono pours hot water. She, too, is weary,
gracious smile thin around the edges.

 

One hundred fifty years later I sit
on the veranda, sip tea. Behind me sacred
forests of the temple at Nara,

 

before me two young cats looped together
like string polish each other's fur
with rough tongues.

 

My tongue savors unfamiliar taste,
red bean cakes, steamed and plump, dusted with
artemisia flour for a delicate green skin, and chewy.

 

Emporers knelt on these boards, I'm told,
and samurai on their way to the coast.
I'm in love with strangeness, the romance of it all

 

yet pink cosmos ruffling its petals
in the Japanese breeze
grows in my garden at home.

Published in Japanophile, Winter 1999