Gecko

The gecko on the wall
in our back-garden
is sixty gecko paces from the soil,
the flower, the fly
that swims towards him,
fluttering delicious wings,
diving back towards the soil.

He lies still,
wrapped in the silence
of gecko introspection -
his belly a green swelling,
feet clamped to the wall,
eyes holding fly,
summoning insect flavour.

His is the language of patience -
of watching his prey like a lover
who will not pounce or scream
but has learned to steady himself
with the possibility of movement -
his thoughts a black speck
of juicy knowledge – or the Om
of fly caught swift in flight.

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