LINKAGE

 

A wedding and a graduation –

He dressed in finery for both

to mark his pledges

to a woman and vocation.

 

He lacked two little things at first:

his shirt had cuffs:

that was a shock,

causing a flurried search

and a cry for help.

 

Among the smorgasbord of formal fiddlery

in my bottom drawer, I spied

two cufflinks, made by my Dad

during his lapidary phase –

inexpensive gemstones

glued to brassy stalks.

 

James thought them perfect,

seized and hastily fitted, but in so doing

tradition was not overlooked –

“These are great links to my family history,”

he smiled.

 

O CANADA

 

Winter, and the maple leaves are brown,

toasted wafers,

they have sacrificed

green and water

to their trees of origin. 

 

A few soft ones

with delicate skins

reveal old arteries and veins,

quiet traces

of residual hue.

 

Others have thick skins,

hiding histories and old skeletons.

Denying their reality they hope

they may be raised

in a glorious resurrection.

 

But that’s not how the game is played.

New life is coming:

new leaves,

with the syrup of spring –

not theirs, or mine.

SILENT WITNESS

 

‘Working at home’

One wonders

how sharp is his intellect

in a dressing gown?

How clear are his thoughts

when colleagues connect

just by Skype or Zoom?

Missing the dimension of touch,

the spark of random conversation,

only cognition remains to play in black and white

on the screen of his mind.

 

The plant on his desk

Is dead.  Before he left

for weeks in lockdown

he was urged, ‘Remember

to reach out to your friends.’

He didn’t, but It did, flayling,

as it drowned in conditioned air,

an octopus on dry land,

but the Samaritans

were also working at home

and none passed by.

 

KIN

 

Granny’s basket of wools –

pink, blue and green,

orange. Each ball

a strand of DNA

from which a jumper grew –

enduring emblems, reminders,

though garments now outgrown,

of how intricate the threads

and warm the knit of kin.

 

 

CLOSING TIME

 

Her photos of generations loved,

posted beside the window,

small box of rings and jewel things,

faded silk flowers,

 soft furnishings,

phone, novels.

 Crucifix,

Bible.

 

All packed.

 

It’s a wonder

her bed’s

not gone.

 

Now I look, sound,

even think like her.  

When will it be my turn?

What’s in between –

sunshine, rain –  

before my landfall?

 

ON THE EDGE

 

Covid means we poets meet late each Wednesday afternoon

on this veranda of the Writers’ Centre,

this building once an asylum for those fleeing mental illness.

 

As the day departs, spirits of long-ago patients

move quietly among the trees,

free from the fear of death-eaters

and the grip of taunting hallucinations.

 

I see a prayer tree – perhaps

once used by Celtic patients to post their clouthies.

signalling their yearning to be delivered from evil,

their desire to be well again – and loved.

 

Before the sun completely sets,

we shall hang our ribbons, and seek relief

from ‘the infected winter of our condition.’

CIRCLE OF FIRE

 

It’s not that I didn’t know the danger

but I drove on anyway through the dark,

torrents pissing down.

It’ll only get worse, I thought,

and I needed to get home,

so, I gunned the engine.

 

I’d reached where the road takes a turn

just before Fred’s farm

and suddenly my truck was floating,

well, sinking actually, water rising 

through the cabin floor,

so much water that the electricals all failed.

 

Scared shitless.  I couldn’t get out:

water was lapping my waist

and would soon be at my chin.

My satellite phone still worked – a miracle

and Fred answered – another miracle.

“I’m on my way,” he said.

 

I had no idea what he would do.

He’d brought a semi-automatic, of all things.

I wondered if he was going to finish me off!

“Mind out!” he urged.  He shot through the roof –

a circle of fire – like opening

a can of beans with a screwdriver.

 

I crawled out, weeping, and shaking.

“You’re a bloody stupid bugger!” he said.

 

“Yeah,” I breathed, “and a lucky one, too!”