From two blocks away, I recognize him
A wrecked lower back I think
All that heavy work, decades of it
One leg splays outward, the left
More than the right, turned inward
But still he keeps his shoulders squared
His arms swinging like pendulums
Straight ahead, steady & slow
His hair is iron grey now
So is the beard but his broad face
Remains blank, unsmiling
Closer now, I think perhaps it’s pain
‘Good morning, ___!’ I yell
Waving like a friendly maniac from my deck
Just to watch his slow recognition
That rare shy smile at last
----------------------------------------------------------
This poem is from a series I am calling The Village Poems which are based on my observations while living in New Denver, B.C. and Eastend, Saskatchewan. Many of them are written in April, Poetry month, and as such, are a series of one draft and a half wonders, as I freely admit. Others are taken from my memoir, Light Years: Memoir of a Modern Lighthouse Keeper (Harbour: 2015) and are much more polished poems. Be that as it may, I will keep working at my village poems because I love writing them and trying them out on my Revolutionary Ladies Luncheon Brigade (you know who you are) and on this blog with 24 followers at least one of whom has passed on to the great writing studio in the sky, bless you one and all! This particular poem came about because even though we've been away from New Denver from 2001 to 2021, I still recognized certain villagers by their posture and walk from at least two blocks away. It aroused feelings of compassion for them as we are all aging and in a village or a hamlet or on an island, small places, many of us look out for each other. We notice if chimney smoke isn't rising from a roof portal during winter and we notice limps and stoops and heavy bags and parcels and if we're kind, and many of us are, we offer a helping hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment