THREE
NO TRACKS
Snow falling. Children grown and gone.
Rooms have taken on the hush of a museum.
I pass bedrooms where the only lodgers
are wide-eyed dolls and action figures.
There are no tracks outside my window
to guide a traveller through the deepening snow.
I hear the house settle and creak
as if something within still wanted to speak.
CHERRY TOMATOES
The French called them pommes dāamour.
To the English they were dangerous ā
sister of henbane, mandrake, nightshade,
thought to unbalance the humours
and lead to grave indiscretions.
Yet year after year you planted rows of them,
staked to old broom handles,
bladeless hockey sticks,
and cared for them like a worried parent
with watering and weeding.
Each May, you put down a row of marigolds,
blond hoplites, your first line of defence
against the rapacious slugs and aphids.
Summerās war shrivelled their golden heads
but behind them your delectable survivors
fed by sunlight and the damp undergroundās
turbulent decay.
Late August, when daylight faded
and shadows perched over the desiccated bed,
Iād watch from the kitchen window
as you crept over the dry stalks
and knelt to pick them,
your fingers dusted with their pollen,
your face so close to their scarlet flesh
it flushed lantern-like against the gloom.
What were you fending off
as you bent like a supplicant?
Sombre autumn? Encroaching winter,
everything silenced?
Try this, youād say
and press a small globe to my lips
as if it were a remedy,
as if Iād forgotten tart seed heart,
sun storage, aftertaste of earth.
SNAIL
Who would not covet
a house like yours
striped vortex
ridged nugget
zebra helmet
toting a double sex?
Atop tender tentacles
your periscope eyes
swivel and twist
ogling the delectable
petals
and stems.
By secretion
by slick persistence
you inch your one good foot
over the terminal garden
leaving behind
a luminous path.
You must be one of the Elect.
When dark torrents
wash away earwigs aphids ā
all frail wings and whisker-legged
specks ā I find you sparkling
clinging to a leaf.
FISHING
Have you forgotten how beautiful
they are, the perch, the pike,
the rock and small-mouth bass
corn yellow about the under-fins
deep blue and moss green,
their iridescent scales shining,
their gelid eyes staring out
from bullet-shaped heads
fronting a sleek persistence?
Catch and release them
to know briefly their mystery
to feel their unequivocal pull
and to sense what lives
in the submerged shadows,
weaving between rocks and reeds,
darting along silent avenues
then slowing, inquisitive, nosing
the ribs of a sunken canoe.
Think of how they navigate
our decay and debris, avoiding
the rusted anchors that held too fast,
passing through tenements
of worn-out tires, vacant cans,
invading our dreams
flashing their purple, silver
and gold, perishable rainbows,
our light to follow.
for Bruce Jacobs
CLOUDS
Out of their billowing whiteness
I improvise a sea horse,
an ogre, a mountain so massive
it could stand in the Himalayas,
where clouds, from what Iāve read,
last longer than here. In this warm
and volatile atmosphere
clouds grow majestic or ominous.
By sunset they dissolve...