Why? We don’t know you, though we hear

the rapid knocking of your voice through the wall,

 

and see you walking silently up the High Road

ushering a gaggle of grandchildren before you,

 

Maharani on an elephant swaying through the jungle.

Sometimes, you even raise an enigmatic smile,

 

then carry on, your tumeric yellow sari swinging

beneath a three-quarter-length grey raincoat.

 

And then, one day, for no reason, a guttural eh eh eh

and your hand over the trellis with a margarine tub

 

and a warm plastic bag. This first, then more,

white grub-shaped things, sweetmeats, grey-green sauces

 

that taste hot-cold, sweet-sour, spicy-dry, so many

tastes outside the language of our mouths. Now

 

to explain this: our reciprocation, banana-bread

taken with a look of utter, utter bewilderment.