Each morning I stop on my long-winded walk,
arm’s-length friendship, talk that isn’t talk,
bridging the gap between us. Whether the river
is wild or tranquil, I know you’ll be here,
who have spent years slipping the shelf
of an eroding boulder, slowly losing yourself.
Your words? Pale green, brown, bare-broomed,
and, with Spring again, white-bloomed.
My words? A glance, an open-handed gesture,
a smile when I catch sight of a kingfisher
igniting your branches, or a waterhen
darting undercover. And I find I am clear then
of doomster notions positing the future
as being all of mayhem, everything of murder.
Patrick Deeley has published several collections of poetry, including The End of the World (Dedalus Press) as well as the memoir The Hurley-Maker’s Son.
arm’s-length friendship, talk that isn’t talk,
bridging the gap between us. Whether the river
is wild or tranquil, I know you’ll be here,
who have spent years slipping the shelf
of an eroding boulder, slowly losing yourself.
Your words? Pale green, brown, bare-broomed,
and, with Spring again, white-bloomed.
My words? A glance, an open-handed gesture,
a smile when I catch sight of a kingfisher
igniting your branches, or a waterhen
darting undercover. And I find I am clear then
of doomster notions positing the future
as being all of mayhem, everything of murder.
Patrick Deeley has published several collections of poetry, including The End of the World (Dedalus Press) as well as the memoir The Hurley-Maker’s Son.
