That Elusive Fountain

 

Appearances certainly can be deceiving

but despite their faded appearance and

joyless expressions those gathered in

this place have a love affair with life

and they are determined against all odds

to cheat the unctuous solicitations of

the Grim Reaper. They may have lost

possession of many of their faculties

but the urge to survive remains constant

alert and defiant. Throughout the course

of the day they stream, one by one, in

pairs, ambulatory or pushing walkers

alternately being themselves pushed in

wheelchairs, all sharing that one ambition.

Some are new to this unit where the

lighting is maintained in a soothing dim

constancy and many are returnees; the

former for pre-surgical assessment, the

latter returning after open heart surgery

for routine checks. There the survivors

of long lives congregate in their white

wisdom studiously ignoring the presence

of counterparts yet occasionally leaning

forward to enquire of personal experience

as in recovery details by the anxious

willing to break the unspoken conspiracy

of courage in silent aloof indifference.

 

Wondering

 

I wonder why it is that the most frequent

dream that visits my sleeping hours that

I identify as a recurrent nightmare has

always been of myself at different stages

of my life wandering a busy street

looking, looking for familiar signposts

that would lead me home wherever that

home at any given time happened to be.

My subconscious mind busy while I

sleep dredging up concerns not known

to me during waking hours; am I then so

emotionally vulnerable? I think about our

two little twin poodles, brother and sister

who we know have thoughts and memories

and can discern far more than we credit

them with in their emotional attachment

to us. Their sensitivity to our emotional

fluctuations must come from somewhere?

Their language skills and capacity to

decipher body language, their willingness

to communicate to us their own body

language speaks to a deep need of their

very own. So I wonder when they sleep

do they too dream and wander about an

unfamiliar landscape in search of their

own vague recollections of dependency

on their mother, recalling no doubt her

deeply protective instincts, now absent.

 

 

Fortune

 

Oh the places I've been to, the landscapes

I've seen, touched and that have touched

me throughout my long and fortunate

life. Standing on mountain summits and

looking out over the countless peaks

marching into infinity, ambling about in

an old-growth forest, the masts of ancient

trees rising as of nature's cathedral ...

paddling lakes and rivers alongside loons

and great blue herons, cooking meals

over a campfire, watching the embers

drift skyward to join the multitude of stars

winking back from the deep velvet of

the sky. Living among people in far-off

countries of a heritage, culture and language

not my own. I could write of my adventures

and I have, just as have countless others

whose escapades allow me to see, hear

and feel what they experienced and through

them have been to Easter Island, Alaska

Antarctica, the Himalaya and Africa.

What more could anyone ever desire as

long, my love as you have been with me?

 

Winter Garden

 

There, in my tender mind's eye our

summer garden still thrives in grand

colourful insouciance, a vivid reminder

of loss in a winter landscape whose

confined colour palette wearies my

consciousness that reverts to dreaming

of summer breezes, a searing sun

casting brilliance over the banished

splendour that roses and lilies awaken

my grieved sensibilities to mourn.

And does nature care that we are so

deprived of the joy of summer gardens?

She remains removed and singularly

unimpressed. This is, after all, her

world and we its tenants. These are

her seasons and she has her reasons.

Our gardens are her gardens in very

fact, on loan in the most temporary of

ways. Yet empathy does not completely

elude her. She nudges us to notice and

regard her very own unrivalled winter

garden, there for our visual comfort.

 

 

Winter Walk

 

The early morning sun illuminated

the house this morning in contrast

to the days when grey gloom

pervaded the atmosphere within

and without. Clear blue winter skies

come with a pricetag bringing icy

temperatures in lieu of snow and 

so cold that blustery winds wreak

havoc on warm-blooded creatures

huddling in their shelters. In the

forest among the trees where snow

yet remains on trunks and branches

and the forest floor is steeped in ice

all is still, no birds sing or flit about

much less the furry denizens last seen

frantically in search of denning-up

victuals to over-winter. Tramping

through the forest trails with their

winter-entrancing landscapes we

briefly savour the sharp air tingling

our nostrils, pinching our cheeks

as we watch the antics of our little

dogs clad as we are in winter gear

seemingly impervious to discomfort

entranced by the atmosphere, at one

with the forces that shape our world.

 

 

The River Remembers

 

The historic river where the raucous

shouts of coureur des bois once rang

loud as they encountered riotous rapids

runs deep and wide. It is a river where

great fighting sturgeon and carp can still

be found, ancient fish too skilled at

evading those whose hunger for fame

in the world of fisherfolk reeks of

urban legends.  Great pine forests once

bordered the shores of that wild river

harvesters sending the felled giants

on their journey downriver, the river

bottom deep in their shed bark leavings.

Now it is small pleasure craft that ply

those waters, their white sails shining

in the sun. At this winter season though

nearby residents await the freezing up

of the river for fishing huts to spring

into presence, hopes of catching one of

the legends still uppermost in mind. On

this early winter day, a weather anomaly

crests over the river; above, the sun 

gleams through the clouds while snow falls

in a squall that obliterates sight lines as

an ice fog wraps the river in recollection.

 

 

You Are A Jew

 

You remember with great clarity when

as a child you were cursed as Christ-killer.

You are a Jew. You recall those persistent

queries by strangers to have you state

where you were really from when you

responded Canada. You are a Jew. It is

never far from your mind in childhood

watching your parents and their friends

gathering quietly, whispering to one

another words that meant little to you

but which memory dredges up, words

such as work camps, concentration camps

and death camps. You are a Jew. When

you became old enough you read about

the Inquisition, Pogroms, the Final Solution

and quivered in helpless rage. You are a

Jew. Because you are a Jew you developed

a sixth sense, knowing and fearing and

yet hoping. Because you are a Jew when

you hear certain phrases they stab your

soul. Now other generations experience

what you did and as they do your own

simply continue as Jew-hatred consumes

the minds of psychopaths everywhere on

this Earth. You shudder when you read

and you hear and you see repetitions of

the familiar. You see, you are a Jew.