Animals

When I fall in love
animals appear
at the very edge.
I follow them –
the birch-white spike
of a blue heron
waiting among reeds;
the yellow head
of a green woodpecker
cackling as it dips
across a field;
a black otter
shaking spray
like a fireworks display;
two kingfishers
burning through river
willows below the filthy
railway bridge.
I walk with unfenced,
untidy horses
near a basin of
flooded spear thistles,
learning phrases off by heart.
There was a fox
and, near Sand Lake (Ontario) a bear;
even the Babylonian track of an artichoke
when I reclaimed my oldest daughter.
Where my limits are indistinct,
fade, shine, I watch
dragonflies pincer
at the abdomen.

 

Tulip Tree

One glorious night
when every blade of grass
carried a hod of stars,
I wanted to sleep under a tulip tree.
I knew by morning the ground
would be white with frost
so I found some cardboard boxes,
taking my time, busting
them open like wedding
presents in the dark. All
night the cardboard shifted
underneath me like escalator plates.
My pillow, a pair of boots that wouldn’t fold.
If I slept I don’t remember.
There were other voices nearby. I woke
every time I heard a peacock bray.
White scooped petals fell like boats
from the moon towards me. The city shimmered
like burning alcohol and I was happy
deep in the drunken poem of my tree.
The wet park stained a boundary
around the island of my sleeping bag.

 

Copyright © David Greenslade, 2004.