Hear the Kingfisher

Awkward Human Folly



As sea mist fogs my window, I no longer

see the pair of swans lift up on webbed feet,



shake out wings and beat the blues

for sun's return. I miss their long landings



on orange pontoons, the swish of water

parting, wake soft under their white chest



as they settle into their favorite chair.

All this white surprises me,



as did the wind dying yesterday,

when I watched a lone man with his ice boat



slip and stumble across the bay, dragging

dead sails behind him on his long ice walk,



with no neck in a graceful S-curve, wings

broken and his voice hissing low grunts.





Old Furrows



Last night, we dined on plump

white asparagus served on cheerful



china plates with a crevice for mayonnaise.

(The chateau has been restored



to a desideratum of elegance and culture

by Madame & Monsieur Tormos.)



As we tucked in, Madame Tormos said, "The garden

was sown on top of ancient monks' graves."



She tends the vegetables today with a care

which harkens to old days of Saint George,



before the sound of hob-nail boots marching

into her hall, or smell of burning panel walls.



Villagers blasted out from blood and barbed wire,

changing bread-line crumbs into wheat fields,



ploughing pain into the earth

and seeding old furrows with poppies.



Now the abbey's red brick wall, topped with red tiles,

seems a perfect buttress against any kind



of perpetration. The wall, centuries older

than any of us, withstood five hundred years



of occupations. This year a Nazi helmet

was dug up in the garden;



it hangs on a hook in the stables.

A yellowhammer perched on it and sang-



behind him the church tower pitted

with bullet holes. How perfect,



this morning the passionflower, desideratum,

on the wall beside the window.





After All



Will death be like crinoline oak leaves

waltzing in a summer breeze, rumpled and airy?

Will spirits float together in clumps or alone?

When they meet, will they say to each other

"Do you remember on earth when we . . . "
Will we see God?



You stamp your feet into the earth

as you walk, as if to make sure the ground

remains solid. I doubt if we will need toes

or shoes where we are going.

I feel sure we will have a great adventure.

After all, there'll be no need to go anywhere,

we will have arrived and I'm thinking

I may learn to sing.