She sits in the shade cast
by the ruined remains
of a truck rusty red against white
a mirror to the child she holds
her skin a grey shroud
of sand and ash and pain
heat from the dessert sears her
the flames from the huts buffet her
and the body she holds
is no longer stiff and cold
cooking on the grill of a noonday sun
earlier that day
soldiers came to her village
their white faces
offering food and hope
bodies
surged forward
raw with animal need
saliva ropes tying the crowd
together their eyes forward
when they should have been watchful
against those moving swiftly
silently mindlessly forward
the contents of a man's head puddle
briefly before evaporation
leaving a smudge
ignored by all save the wind
her face is dry
as she wanders away
desiccated beneath
an African sky.
Weathering Heights
looking out my window
I have to stretch and strain
to see the glacier
wisps of cloud
hang just above the trees
my neighbour has
green fights with blue
on good days
winter sparsing the thicket
only slightly
a flicker has returned
after a long absence
his rat-a-tat call most welcome
fire-engine feathers
flashing alarm as he climbs
he roosts in my neighbour's tree
silent when winds are high
a yo-yo in the darkness
the poplars threatening to take more
than just the view
wildness
becomes lost; fog
descends, engulfing green—
a pagan moon nets the sky each
springtide
Altered State
mist hangs over water
obscuring dense forests
high pristine mountains
dulling their reflection
muting swans
snatching echoes
as it barrels through
this Sunday morning
transferring the valley
into a quiet cathedral—
awestruck, I'm anchored
only by the dip, dip, dip
of my paddle
and occasional seal's snort
black gives way to grey
a respectful line separating
sky from sea, only marginally
the soft snick of my canoe
on sand calms my sea legs
(the rocking from passing
tourist juggernauts lends me
a fundamentalist expression,
complete as I yelp in tongues)
sitting amongst the rocks
silent communion
shared by all is quickly eaten up
as I watch fog dissipate
grounding me in the trappings
we attribute to progress
endless
whispers are heard
over Iceland's highlands;
here volcanic plumes and glacial
calves play
Cinquain
Patience
It stands
in the eelgrass
watching the tidewater
rise and fall, waiting for the right
shadows.
Stilted
Herons
gaze out to sea,
ignoring warring seals—
their disdain caught with each cock of
their head.
Hunting Heron
wading
into the stream
he waits, looking this way
and that; caught by his reflection
he's snagged
Sijo
departed
silence is a heavy heart that yearns
to be set free
the cuckoo counts each shadow, most falling unaware
her hand flutters within his as they part at break of day
