And Every Year … i. As spring rains all over you you find yourself water rushing the culvert and you find the river, become river (because it’s home) and all who live along it know its name and yours and all that you did (or did not do) is river, part of the landscape as each day bursts its filmy sky, pain already in the wind and birds are singing and singing hurts (more than silence) more than the danger of burst bank and levee, long wash of spring flood and every year you pray you’ll escape and every year you find yourself water ... ii.
Just another overheated summer and you
awake to the alarm of the clock (in imperfect light) and the hills on fire, windburnt sky, grey smoke suspended … admit it’s ridiculous – you’ve hijacked a god who can (and does) cremate a landscape, track black carbon footprints over your heart and you are only one amongst a multitude (neither saint nor sinner) called into a world where even He is not above flouting the protocol.
Issue 016
Devour: Art and Lit Canada
34