Saskatchewan

I walk at dawn across the hills
and wonder why they call them "Hollow hills"
For these hills have no caverns at their base
rich black earth encrusted over clay
they cling close to earth's ancient rock.

Pine edges the horizon. Voluptuous earth
supports a hundred kinds of seed
now harvest is over
fields lie dormant
waiting for winter.

I walk at dawn across the hills
for only these have been unchanging
through my years &emdash; April
the wide snow pack will melt
deep into the covering, wake
the seed of dandelion, crested
wheat grass and the endless
fibres of bearded barley.

I will seek out the tiny pansy faces
of wood violets, and find
a yellow orchid, lady slipper
a pale anenome will show and a snowdrop
dip fragile and tender above the last
cool pool. Later there will be
sturdier yellows and oranges here
We find the prairie lilies, mustard
and milkweed, blue bells that do not
ring but greet my coming and a hedge
of wild roses.

Centuries
of glacier ground rock and residue
of ten million trees save winter's bounty
for hot summer days. Rich country,
my country, my country
where there are
no hollow hills.

Chelsea

There is a haunting in old houses
a haunting born of feet
that trod old floors
as though the scent
of all those stories lies
beneath each board
that creaks and tells of makers
and of those who dwelt
these London streets

Old houses carry in their bones
tales that the children
told each other, songs
sung by mothers, widows tears
and the long rumours
of the years but more
the stones quarried from the mountain
redefined still know
shapes of living things

Old bodies
retaining all that was once was
are here, under the floorboards
deep as tale
their builder sensed
but could not know
The broken window leaves a trace
of fingers that pinched
the greying putty, held the glass
we cannot see, but know

There are hauntings
in old houses, hints of the painter
chips where the paintings
hung and delicate
threads of stories traced on a ceiling
read by children before the lights went out.
These floorboards
bear the marks of cots
and cradle runners

The attic window
open to the wind still whispers
as in her bones
the old ballerina dances
a ballet long forgotten
and in the dust
the poet wrote
her name

Recollection


I did not know you
when we met
and yet I shared your bed
for forty years

and now that you are gone
I still cannot find
that inner space
where you lived beside me

I try to remember
your touch
your smile
and to forget
my failure



Jacaranda season


Young swallows
practice first flight
in ever-widening circlings
against the coming dark

It was jacaranda season
your wild spirit
flew
I watched
and waited
from that high window
wondering if you
had joined
the swallows

Today jacaranda still
twists patterns
purple
against darkening sky
and I watch swallows
and wait



Montana

White-capped the mountain casts shadows at the base
I rest against your back
five deep slashes scar the poplar bark
a gift I cannot open on my table

I rest against your back
do not leave me here where I can see the track
a gift I cannot open on my table
sap heals but cannot hide the marks

Do not leave me here where I can see the track
touch close I need you
sap heals but cannot hide the marks
some stranger left beneath the fallen branch

Touch close, I need you
warm against the night
some stranger left beneath the fallen branch
five deep slashes scar the poplar bark

Warm against the night
I hide myself my flesh to yours
five deep slashes scar the poplar bark
nights are longer in the mountain country

I hide myself, my flesh to yours
the ice is melting on the lakes
nights are longer in the mountain country
touch close I need you

The ice is melting on the lakes
Soon the pale anenomes will bloom
touch close I need you
snow glows, reddening againstdawn

Soon pale anenomes will bloom
I turn into your arms
snow glows reddening against dawn
White-capped the mountain casts shadows at the base


Willow Song

We stood by the well where the summer sun
shone late and the willow shadowed the gate
You were strong and tall and I wanted it all
and I knew you
and learned your loving

The marsh mallow, yellow, cradled us then
and I knew you, knew you as never again
for the willow’s shadow hung low
where we lay
and marked the space of our loving

The days have been long
since we left the well,
leaves from the willow cover the place
where we loved and the branches fall
where I knew you, and knew your loving

The marsh mallow’s faded
the well’s grown black ,willow leaves bitter
and the shadows track, dark in the space
where we lay and loved
where I knew you and knew your loving

You left in the morning, your call had come
and I heard the beat of the ancient drum
that takes the best and the best of the young
from the places they know, and the women weep
for the men who go from their loving