Seven poems by the Edinburgh-born poet who has lived in India for over 50 years, excerpted from Eucalyptus Sextet, published by Bombaykala Books (www.bombaykala.com), in which she explores the predicament of the middle-aged widow who after the first shock of bereavement finds herself constantly dreaming about sex

I sipped love from your lips

and warmed my soul against your body,

then left you sleeping

while I wrote of love.

The best was that morning

flavoured with delight:

After a night

spent drinking your body

I arose to write it down

before I lost the savour

and you slept, not knowing

I had turned satisfaction

into a number of words.

If I had known

you would go so soon

I would have left writing

till later: but what I had

was an itch

that would not be scratched,

and still I write of it.

I should say,

watch out for widows.

They are dangerous.

Needy for love,

we stalk

in an emotional jungle.

We sally forth

in our war paint;

women on safari.

I think I should have

a small lasso

in my handbag.

In England I take a real bath:

Fill the tub, float half-submerged,

and look down its channel,

at pink toes twiddling the chain

of the rubber plug, and before I submerge,

the twin rounded sandbars of breasts.

Nipples poke up puckering periscopes.

Mapping my body in the narrow sea,

I view the continent of belly,

a wooded island, dolphin thighs,

knees, and of course, the toes.

The water cools. The tap yields only chill.

I emerge, a goose-pimpled Venus,

from my pale pink porcelain shell

into the chilly English air

chastely draped in a too-small towel.

And the toes, bless them, are still pink.

To find a prince you have to kiss

an awful lot of frogs. Some

were even toads, too repulsive

to kiss: but believe me

this is the best way to tell

if your frog will be a prince,

or just another frog.

Mostly they hopped away: a few

hung around, complaining

that they should have a second chance.

Never let them back in. Discarded frogs

must stay in their pond

while you move on.

Just once, I kissed a frog

and found a princess. Surprise!

I was tempted to see

what might come of princess and me,

but she moved on,

and I found myself another frog.

It is spring. New leaves dangle,

tenderly green. I imagine them

stroking me, your fingers in absentia;

at night, I lie and watch them

moving blackly under the street lights,

and wish you were here.

Today, I took a photograph

of the eucalyptus framed in the window,

thinking I would send it to you,

a gentle hint to return when you can,

be my lover, touch my body,

and leave those tender hanging leaves

outside where they belong. We will admit

their shadows as welcome guests,

let them fall across our bodies,

while we explore the possibilities

of light and dark.

I watched the eucalyptus sway,

tracing a tremulous arc

against the orange sky.

The new leaves had withered.

Don’t ask me how it happened.

Suddenly

we were on the floor, kissing,

and all that was missing

was soft music. But in my head

Mahler blared, wailed,

and wept unrestrained,

gave fire to our kisses.

It was all we needed.

A celibate time spent waiting

for the right Other:

it makes you itch

to be so deprived.

Is he right? Is it love?

I don’t know, but

he makes my toes wiggle

and I wear a permanent grin.

On the bed are deep yellow sheets:

Across their splendour lies your body,

indolent after love, lean and brown.

I will paint those lax lines, a picture

called ‘Limp Lover, On Yellow Field’.

Shiva, resplendent amid the turmeric,

dusted with it, gilded by morning sunlight.

I lay down my brush.

A new painting begins:

‘Two Lovers On A Yellow Field.’