A Climate Lament

My sweet river

Where have you gone?

.

I knew you

Of bygone places

Wrapped in icy mornings

Beyond time.

.

Sweet songs of your seasons

Passing stories

Like childrens secrets,

Magical and suprising,

Refreshingly indifferent.

.

That was us.

.

Among your soft curves,

bantering about,

Often silenced in reveries,

While whispers passed across

Your eyes

Sparkling of emerald dreams.

.

Not you,

Not me,

But this.

.

Different now

In a sadness.

Lost

In the bony grip

of a relentless routine

Unrehearsed

And unwelcome.

Framing the Wind – a first draft before it all goes away

How the light catches this corner of the kitchen now.

Some effusive glow that might have left us spellbound

And captive to a late afternoon pause.

But that corner hides dust and crumbs

Winters droppings and excuses and dark things.

.

This time there will be no pagan contemplation

Of this full circle before us.

No, this light pulls us away from the long dark

Where we lived maybe close within ourselves,

Intimate

In a way that accumulated warmth and a dim light can do,

Pulling you in while tempting you out

In short fidgety bouts.

.

Now, with almost forgotten suddenness,

Light piles through the window

Like the first time

When it pulled us out there.

A long ways from there.

.

And once out that door,

A long ways from here.

Convinced there were ghosts out there.

This is that time:

.

The long fetch up the hill:

Landscapes of new Spring grass

Flailing and moving.

Ever with the hard line of something

Hidden just over the hill

Waiting to knock at that broad, dark door.

Light now streaking through its edges.

Cheshire Winter

I remember tracing

Across the pale silvery worlds

Of sharpened sounds

Lit by January moons.

.

Curse you,

Impatient rain,

And how you fidget!

.

Casting this land

Into a great serpentine lapse,

Of water and light

With everything sparkling

On a mid-winter’s night.

Part II. Listening to Steelhead.

I cannot counter the edge,

Remarkable, memorable, inexorable

In an odd persistence that wanes in it’s coming.

I cannot shape this space.

Green years, short months and how the day suddenly curves away.

The center is far removed from place and time. Eyes turning to the bright prospects of hard lines on skies.

I cannot yield to grace, as the soft illusions of ease tempt me into the chilled waters.

 

 

December on the Eel

Here,

Moored

By the soft calling turns

Of a river now purposed by rain,

We can linger in that patient lapse

Between the miseries of drought

And the sudden electricity of flood.

.

The Copenhagen-spitting sages of Weymouth,

And the oared helmsmen at High Rock,

Hiding in their closet cigarettes,

Share chit chat smiles of angst

In the nervous dawn light

While the Chinook-crazed bankies

Debate spoon and roe.

.

And a distant figure

Heaves arcing bright lines

Through shadowy secret boils

And long greasy slicks

In a solitary reverie

Of far-fetched feathered hopes.

.

This is far removed

From the life-gone-easy days of,

say, June,

The routines of August,

Or the Sunday light

After a passing April rain

Reminded us all things

Eventually come back to this time.