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Saturday, March 25, 2017

Self-portrait at Bowness Park


Lying here on this crispy leaf-strewn ground
With soft, drying grass underneath, nearly sound asleep in the fall
Time and again keeping my hat from being blown away
As the wind comes and shakes the branches of half-naked trees
Like batons conducting an orchestra of rustling, swirling leaves
With the sun as its spotlight, just the right kind
Not the gloomy wintry sun nor the blinding summer sun.
Let me lie still and close my eyes – never to open them again.

As in an old Irish movie about the closing of a small town railway
The lone station guy stayed in his spot despite everyone’s bidding.
The sound of the last train had long gone, as well as the scent of a woman,
A lost passenger, once a boarder at the station, an object of desire…
Lying peacefully in bed, the seasons flew by and nature took over
The moss and the ferns and the fungi and all that could come
Wrapped the man and the station and the rusty railway in a warm embrace
And giving birth to this wondrous sight of virgin earth, seemingly untouched.

Who knows what really lies beneath the ground that we tread?
23 March 2017


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