Light, like a leaf, lands beside me again and again;
I jostle for memory,
where have I seen that?
the wind, gulls wheeling, thrumming deck, Ocean…
Leaf, between light and shadow,
bringer-upper of trees, bringer of oxygen, bringer and bringer, by bending light photons into electron energy, just bustling you bet, in the wind. In the night, sighing backwards; and then the Sun, the Sun
comes, photons to the max, a solar wind you’d be blown away on, had you
had you a Leaf.
Old leaf, sighs, between boredom and bashing, winter light cold yellow,
suspended by spider’s thread
o’er the pathway. Significant, think I, oh that Fall
morning, with Mefo asleeping, in old Ashford Kent, and me out walking a path
oh, so clean-o, by river, a stream-o, with light-frosted water.
Later, at Sea, I would think of the trees, and see only Ocean; untrained,
unmanageable, far out as I might lean.
Come home, kiss ground, run to churches, old ribs upheaved in the
sunlight; boats broken, once put together as wood, by leaves.
I would run, I would run
– Michael Cooke, Edmonton, 1993