Into His Parlour

He is pale, slight, balding and
supremely unctuous, a present day
Uriah Heep who might well have
wobbled out of a novel by Dickens.
His pale, watery eyes glance past
mine, eyelids twitching, never
quite meeting mine even as his
lips quiver sincerity, inviting me 
into the inner sanctum of his
passions. As a dealer in fine antiques
as a committed animal lover whose
devotion to the welfare of feral
cats is outdone only by his
adoration of heritage silver,
oriental porcelains, bronze and
marble sculpture, Renaissance
paintings and Continental furniture
design, he lives, he says, with mawkish
confidentiality, to please himself. 
And, on this occasion, he nudges the 
air between us, it is his pleasure to 
please me. Moving ever closer each 
time I seek to withdraw from the 
intimate proximity he appears to crave, 
the distance closes, and I feel
stifled. He the spider, I the fly caught
in the sticky web of desire, client and
dealer; the fly helpless in the
pantomime of prey seeking escape.

Beasts of the Field

He was the resident, I was the 
stranger, intruder, and as we
confronted one another on that
perfect summer day of clear
blue skies and gentle breezes
he lifted his massive bovine
head, eyes fixed on mine,
regarding me quizzically, the
question obvious. He knew what
he was doing in that field in the
company of his species' cohorts
and wondered my purpose in so
rudely interfering their grazing
pasturage causing a commotion
of movement among the herd.
Not entirely oblivious to their
brief consternation as those
powerful beasts re-settled to 
nibbling forage and deciding in
their animal wisdom to simply
ignore the arrogant presumption
of some animals considering
themselves exceptional in nature
by design and capacity. I understood
the beastly infraction I had committed
seated within an iron horse,
implacably humiliating the herd
taking futile exception to my hubris 
and my clicking camera even as 
they fastidiously shunned its eye.

Rural Ontario

Sky a luminous blue
powder puffs of random white
briefly interrupt the summer
sun's glances down upon
the rivers of grey, traffic
streaming onward, an
array of metal beasts
occasionally intersecting
with warm-blooded beasts
erupting from the scrubland
beyond, leaving red carnage
behind as above fly
vultures and great blue herons
on this day. There are well
ordered fields of oats and
corn and beyond them wetlands,
lakes and rivers. The green
of meadows blaze with
buttercups, daisies, tiger lilies
and bugloss, the landscape
of a day in the life of
rural summer Ontario.

Nature's Anarchy

Nature, in one of her moody
theatrics bade the dawn to
herald a lovely summer day.
Then she costumed the day
as a chameleon, uncertain in
its studied role, whether to
present its cherubic face of
innocence of devious deceit
-- and deceit won the day,
transforming itself with undue
haste into an oven of ferocious
intensity mischievously accompanied
by dank humidity, a rank and
reeking parody of its initial
entrance. But Nature's impish
mischief was not done, teasing
the sky with darkly threatening
thunderheads, finally abandoning
vacillation to inundate my
heat-prostrate garden in a
luxuriantly drawn-out flood
bringing life and sparkle to
dehydrated blooms, while the
sun crept out from the dense 
cloud blanket to defy the rain
and shine its brilliant fire even
while thunder clapped its glee
as Nature provoked her 
elements to random anarchy.

It's ... July First

Hot and drippingly humid the day, 
sunrays fiercely stoking the furnace 
of yet another torrid summer day blaze. 
In the garden, green vines droop 
in a dismay of overheated discomfort. 
Blossoms have abandoned their 
colourful sheen, bees wing halfheartedly
to languishing pollen-filled stamens. 
The lush foliage of the ornamental 
magnolia are spontaneously detaching 
stem from branch, committing graceful
green suicides. Their morning songs 
beaked, birds seek shelter in the imagined 
cool interiors of the garden canopy. 
Oh, wait, hear that rumble? Rescue from
wilting heat is upon us. Doesn't that 
look like a thunderhead now shading 
the sun? Then, a sleek, black streak of 
a jet slices the sky as warplanes mount 
their dramatic sinister presence, celebrating
peace and security for another Canada Day.

The Forest Fastness

The mountain trail turns, twists
and switches, contouring the 
granite slope, alongside a
boulder-strewn stream, babbling
and foaming, sending a mist over
nearby ferns, sumacs and dogwood. 
The glint and gleam of mica in 
the rocks and flaked among the 
wet pebbles twink back the gleam 
of a scorching sun. Alongside the 
trail grow bunchberry, sorel, 
lilies-of-the-valley and splendid
pink orchids, their Ladies Slipper
orbs splashes of brightness in
the forest gloom. Wild strawberries
in a profusion of tiny white
blossoms and raspberry canes
take their advantage of random
bursts of sunbeams penetrating
the green shield of the forest canopy.
Yellow Swallowtails lazily loft
themselves from understory to
lichened trunk, and a full-throated
ovenbird trills time with the day's
passing hours. Graciously guiding
nature-loving hikers, the trail
completes its long loop to deliver
the bipedal explorers finally
beyond the forest fastness.

As In A Dream

My dreaming self has finally 
responded to an old wonder, 
whether the eyes viewing those 
dreams discern colour, and 
now, I have my answer. A
vision visited my sleeping soul
of a summer garden watched
over by a mysterious spirit
so serene she posed quietly
as a statue would, inciting the
garden to growth and vibrantly
transcendent beauty, searching
and grasping sunrays and raindrops
birds and breezes, butterflies and
bees to enhance its singular
vision of self as a Paradisaical
Eden, comforting itself in
the splendour of existence,
entrancing my sleeping vision.