wool and water

he was lovely
the hair on his arms like scented river rushes
i could gather to my breast

when i dipped my oar into the waters
he held me fast
we breathed in the late summer night
breath for breath

when he released the oar
suddenly
i was thrown into the river

oh but the rushes are sweet!
i reach for them
and they are always just beyond my fingertips
while his face
cheshire-like
fades into the middle distance

back in the boat
the dream rushes i collected
are already melting away
under spring skies
his cheshire smile
is all that remains

fading so slowly

spring

the field where they cut down the trees last summer
where i cried next to you
when we were first discovering each other

this spring is a sea of forget-me-nots

no matter the ruin
beauty returns

the beauty that we shared will
never be forgotten

winter

They are paving the north field

Where we lay in each other arms last fall among the wildflowers

I told you then, this beauty won’t be here forever

So let's enjoy it

Now the flowers are gone

And so are you

All beautiful things are fleeting

Though they seem eternal under the autumn sun

The Greenway

down the greenway
narrow strip of emerald
between concrete and dirty snow
mysteriously free of garbage
now that i think of it
except at the very end
where two metal fences meet
bits of concrete strewn like a giant
flinging stones
bottles and pages and trinkets
all blown into the corner
under the scotch pines
i'm sitting on a broken cinder block
watching a black cat
watching me
from the other side of the barbed wire fence
among the faded shipping containers
beside the growing tower
under the swing of the cranes
sweeping the grey sky

it might be raining
a little
when it's windy a white tarp
blows through an open window in the tower
like a curtain in a lady's dressing room
and soothes the neuronal firing
that is the mind i carry

the mind that
moves quickly like the cat
running as I move towards it
moves steadily
in the wind like the tarp curtain
spits like the rain
little piercing touches
is dirty like the edge of the fences where
mud meets garbage

still
i sit
waiting
for motion to cease
and stillness
to return

perhaps not today
back down the greenway
i carry god with me

turf farm

a truck was pulling out of the rec centre this morning
on the side in large letters was printed
"strathroy turf farm"

oh! what a dream!
a thousand acres of lawn
and nothing else
lush and thick and emerald
under a blue clear bowl of sky

children in bright colours run with wild joy
carrying pails and baseball bats and dolls
shrieking, bare-footed

moving always towards the

infinite blue green horizon

history

it occurs to me that nothing I ever saw or lived through belonged to me

although until this moment i believed not only that, but even, so childishly, that i created these things

the small weathered shack at the corner of the road leading to Grandma's house with the sign on it

“ Apple Orchard 2 km” bright red block letters on a large white square

for 30 years and maybe more (before and after I travelled that road) and the field behind it

and the woods in the near distance and the sky behind that and behind that, every dream I had about the wide mysterious world in the back of my mind

imprinted over this dirty reality

and none of it mine

not even Grandma's bright, practical, red-lipsticked smile

so loving, so kind, she, like a brightly coloured bodhisattva in heels and pantsuits

the fields of my dreams, the taken for granted love of my childhood

offered to me like gifts, passing by and through me like a wide and steady river

each drop offer by god freely and with love

god tucks his child into bed at night

and laughs kindly at her innocent arrogance

and stands ready and silent and still and glad for her slow coming awakening

The Return

Poetry again
because of trees