Deeper

Deeper 

To get to know her you must
dive
deep
beneath
her silky, oiled chocolate skin
and tumble
twist around her submerged
arteries of stone,
hide,
as gnashing mandibles of rooted rock
shred water into shrill white foam, then
up
from
high above
observe the river flex the quiet muscles of her power,
slowly
wish that she would
brush those rippled curves
against the bank of your imagination,
hold
her brimming substance
in your cup of words.

Tree frog

Tree frog

They sit tight in the lit hours,
all waking as the sun gives way
to moons and bats and whistling unseen things,

then shrill their mating calls into the fresh night wind,

and awkwardly manoeuver, foot by foot
through all the tangled undergarden,

eagerly cruising trees for prey
(what insect could escape the gaze of such a wondrous eye?).

Bright day returns, and down they hunch,  
a blob of wet amphibian-stuff clinging
to whichever branch seems right. 

Once one gripped my fingers just as though I was a tree,
with feet that flapped the cool deliciousness
of living jelly on my eager quivering skin, then leapt
ungraciously onto the leaf-leaden forest floor below,
sat tight.  

Snowstorm

A spinning swarm around the sun,
light flakes of snow
blot out the rain
and fall,
in little living silences;

some land,
as bold as bees,
right on my warm and hopeful tongue,
some drop to earth
sighing, stop,
and blink into the grass.

Raven Nest

February

In the tallest pine,

ravens weave sticks and twigs.

With massive bill

the female knits ewe-fleece,

embroiders bright baler twine,

fashions her cradle.

All night, the nest is tossed

by snow-spumed wind-waves.

She wakes in a deeper bowl,

tree-tops and fields below have vanished.

She stands, shakes off her lace-edged shawl

and turns five blue-green eggs,

presses hot skin to the cool, hard shells.

March

A larder is spread before them,

green acres, replenished daily.

The male brings mutton, juicy afterbirths

and they feast. Each day

the black chicks cry louder, reach higher

open red gapes wider.

April

The raven eyes her boisterous brood, until

in a frenzy of flapping and fighting

her pot boils over.

Flies buzz

around the spattered, crud-encrusted rim.

Barbara Mearns

The Coltsfoot’s revenge

Thinking that a poet should look

(like God)

not just on the outward appearance, but on the heart,

I plucked one golden, soft, defenceless bloom

and sniffed.

Liking the mead-sweet fragrance

I inhaled more deeply

like a connoisseur of fine wines

searching for words to describe the honey bouquet:

words that would shine bright and glossy as petals.

Then I sneezed

and sneezed

and sneezed again.

Not gentle, lady-like sneezes (I never could)

but violent explosions

each pollen speck a bomb

planted inside my skull

shaking my brains

reddening my nose

flooding my eyes

turning my sinuses thick and heavy.

I picture my gravestone:

Died 11^th April

Killed by a Coltsfoot.

My last thought:

‘Do bees sneeze?’

Barbara Mearns

Running

Hares flee from me

panic along hard roads, on hot feet

sprint through bare-earthed fields

dodge through brashings in gloomy shelter belts

and dash across salty turf, leaping the high-tide plastic debris.

In what kind of a world would they stop

brave the sight

the scent

and look me in the eye?  

Barbara Mearns                                                         

Leah’s Humpback

 From the

Strait of Georgia

she broke the water

into air

with one purpose in her last aborted breach

she beached

to rest herself with death

and not be

drowned

Such mystery

splayed onto the sand

in such an

unbecoming beast

but tragically too everyday

and much too long in not disentangling her thrash

of trawling lines

her freedom

snagged

her powers all but snapped

she lies leviathan with raw and salted

lacerations

and strangely

safe

on warming

ground

Finally

she is cut free

from breath itself

in a visitation more

than all the curiosity

the loathing and the crying

among  

two hundred hands

of little ones

the earth

so quickly

found

Unfettered now

with no cry of dereliction down

into Pacific

deeps

she dips

into her  final

sound

 Allen Goddard

  

With great thanks to Leah Kostamu, for sharing her story of the Humpback