Come and count your woes.
Do they equal the number of your fingers and toes?
Are they less or more?
Or are you blessed to have none at all?
You remember it yet, the green garden was wet,
you felt the sudden splat on your scalp of a cold rain drop
that slid off the leaf of ivy and rose.
Now count your blessings.
May they amount to many.
Maybe only the grumpy
say that they have not got any.
A coin dropped in a wishing well
could be your last penny.
It may comfort you,
even though you know with the world as it is
your wish will not come true.
The eagle sits on the peak of the pinnacle,
surveys the lands below,
can see a hare prick its ears on the moor,
salmon leap the steps of a waterfall,
maybe even hears the fern and the yellow gorse grow.
Meanwhile, the snake and the lizard
crawl up the sides of the pit
from its unseen black basin.
If you think this a riddle,
work it out, if you have the wit.
The air of Armenia smells of water and stone.
If you are there you will remember
your first taste of a fresh pomegranate
plucked from a local garden tree,
its juice so good it cannot be described.
I think they must chew and drink them
in eastern heaven.
Walk the aisles of an English supermarket,
and you will not find them,
only those imported from places like Syria.
So you don’t have to ask why they taste rather dry.
Close your eyes, count the holy number seven.
Taste a freshly plucked pomegranate,
you are in eastern heaven.