the smell of freshly cut grass
is the smell of promise
in this afternoon sun, recollecting
a past time, a younger time,
always won,
but seeming lost now,
being older,
the smell of freshly cut grass,
nature's summer cologne,
something manufactured,
my own...
the whine of the lawn mower
the breeze wafting around
the smell of grass
continually known.

I recollect my first impression of death:

In an old 70s beige GM car, an overcast day

in a Winnipeg parking lot,

I was four, five or six maybe,

it seemed nebulous and strange, yet

an oncoming unseen hurdle to be feared, reckoned with

at a later date, when age itself seemed abstract -

making me feel even smaller in the back seat.



Second time on a bus ride to school,

a dew heavy Kingston morning, the traffic slowed

to molasses and the driver asked a passerby

why the commotion – a dead woman in the bush.

I glimpsed her arm, a solemn shade of brown,

reaching out into the air, making fun of the day

and embellishing mine with playtime dread.



My bus drove on to its familiar route

and I settled back down

and I thought this breaking day was her final loss…

The sun overflowing and happy,

turning everything real and unreal

and perilous without reason.

In the still river of my heart

and the avenues of Past,

enlivened memories shall sleep no longer…



Welcome now the strongest tides

and cage every hesitation…

The dowser within picks up the rod

to lay a final gambit –

the source has all but disappeared.



And though this spring is well tried

it remains fresh to my hopes,

the fountain sits in me to collect many a depth

and hold such tremulous years to light.



So let the future be kind and bring forth

all manner of rich archives…



And share this common antidote

in our tender copious fate.

We are just outside the forest,

a hunting party at night,

landscape laden by moonlight,

two quiet Indians behind us watching

our tracks, and behind them

a tall ominous conifer.

The other group is farther

ahead aways, bearing

down on something, the spark

and clap of rifle fire

sounds off through the trees,

my retinas light up like tiny

bonfires. We run towards

the commotion but the firing

ceases and we become

lost among the pines, and

I still have no idea what we

are after, a mythic creature maybe.



In the morning we set off,

we are in the valley now and

have a journey back home to the high

steppes, far from this strange canton…

We are making good pace, the countryside skids

by, the vineries like receding carpets

grow tinier, the lake now farther below…

To the town we ascend in

a gondola, looking down we see

wandering geese, mired mossy fields, and

higher up the last dregs of a once proud

glacier beckoning us on. You say you

love the lake shore best, the chance to

swim and sun bathe, not this

sequestered inland shire where

nothing really seems to happen

but us and the sky laid out above.

Restful, calm,

enjoy the eve now

like a good friend,

low lit lamp

anchoring wood floor

and makeshift newspaper mats...



Blue cheese, cherry jam,

clam dip, bread, goat cheese

and many crumbs thereafter

follow knife's path -

she cuts for me delicately

and lovingly

while the autumn ale goes down...



A peaceful repose this,

with a TV fireplace

speaking in images

for an absent hearth;

letting the channel rest

as banquet abides –

a farmer's work is finally done.

Last night came a dream of hoarfrost

or rather the name itself and the image it conjures -

something biting, cold, and natural in its bare comfort,

existing as a cipher for seasons.


The night before I stumbled through an old Tudor village

and I searched for you under dawn's coming slake,

peering into stables, over the bales, I could

not find you, perhaps you skipped town

taking the eastbound carriage, and I followed

feverishly into an awakening…


It was now late in the morning

and work had taken you far away from here,

and I stood out of bed into a shrinking world…

Subtle observations
upon this country weekend:

Black starry wood headboard,
the curlicues of nebulae and
galaxies, I wake up weeping,
some sad dream,
grimaced face the deck
of an old schooner, mast
creaks and tears leak, and
head sounding an ocean's fixins'.

Later on the drive
the road map splayed,
there is a bug, ant like,
some kind of critter
skittering over
the routes, symbols
legends and
betwixt greens.

It's moving while I'm
moving, but the
six legger scouts
another surface altogether
while I sit aside on mine,
perhaps, hopefully, sowing
a vaster serpentine ledger.