MEMORIES FROM THE FARM
laundry snapping in the wind
squeaking protest of screen door swing
clank, gurgle and splash of the hand pump
thump and click of the privy door
circus animals in clouds seen through purple perfume dome of lilacs
wind sighing through tall field grass
counterpoint to the buzz, clicks and whir of insect chorus –
childhood past
Love Birds
A pond formed between two rapids
home for two white swans,
by day, paddling about their refuge
for food and play;
by night, bodies in soft collision
floating together as one
in soft, sound sleep,
away from swirling eddies
bonded and safe in their own wee world.
Maggie’s World
Leaning derelict, a shanty,
witness to time and weather–
gray siding, sagging roof.
Waist-high weeds in front offer
splashes of colour to contrast with
planted flowers gone wild, surviving.
On a post, a worn heart-shaped board
with child’s studied script:
‘Maggie’s Garden’
gives my heart pause . . .
this poor shelter once alive
with spirit, bright-light Maggie–
her words, this was my home.
Morning Mist
With my passion for the wilderness I became part of the forest sharing its secrets through the veil of a soft mist in the early morning hours.
Standing naked, ankle deep in an unnamed lake, arms stretched enveloped in mist the moon resting westward casting surreal across waters mist filtered .
Wading with first light touching eastern skies,
Gliding under, cooling waters caressing.
Renewal, affirmation of life.
Crickets
Crickets in fine tune
their song drawing me back,
back to the farm of my youth.
Magic nights with crickets’ call
to venture forth.
Through my window across the field
stretched out by creek,
upward gazing, moon and stars a wonder
The night sounds were my friend
and in fact still are.
Crickets
Crickets fine-tuning their song
draw me back
to the farm of my youth.
Magic nights, with crickets call
I venture forth
through my window, across the field,
stretched out by creek,
gazing upward, moon and stars a wonder.
Night sounds were my friends
I hear them still.
Leave a Reply