I – Barn Door
There is a lilac fiend hiding in the bush, behind the house.
An indigo cloud washes away traces of mud from its face;
its ghostly scent, ash-like,
pervades corners that speak of rotten planks, mildew filling up
the deserted trough,
and a rusted rake leaning against the barn's wall.
It's a wet, late spring that makes its way
across Lake Ontario through freezing rain,
barely unravelling snow from tree tops.
Not a pinhead fits in between rain drops.
A crow's flight casts a shadow on the ground,
as the lilac fiend shifts again, stirring petals,
its spirit crushed
in the hinges of
the barn door.
II- The Stone Egg by Niagara Falls
Oblong, quartz crux of a cart wheel -
dustbin in which the glitter of the night extends,
dismissed by a turbulence of wings.
Eggshell, they have whispered, of a larger
stone egg: a pyrite vein of despair,
transparent under the curtain of the dawn.
A yolk of rock in which the echo of the falls dies off.
III - Summer Kitchen
Smell of fried fish, mingling with the scent of acacia
and honeysuckle rose:
a puffy festivity forms
above, among dispersed clouds.
The evening's ajar, behind the summer kitchen
where dinner-time stills
on a planet of air,
chips and fish almost ready to fly
into the incipient white blue light.
The amidon moon glows
at the edge of a dark line.
IV - Barn Hour, Leaf Shelter
Barn hour - an oscillating emptiness
inside strata of green:
a hub -
light green, bulbous and unfettered in the late spring
among the maze of twigs and sprouting vine tendrils.
Late spring waking from the slumber of an early summer:
dark green pulverized at the point of leaf shelters,
smoky blue caterpillar fringes,
oleander funnels scattered - in white.
A fused umbrage that shapes a bird's song
in between dust intersections.
V - Hubs
long, spurious threads of
lilac perfume lost in medals of rain
smeared on tree trunks
desiccated, each one a hub,
a molded shape of a lost tree stump.
VI - Arena
An old hockey stick
inside the barn.
The moon is luscious in bottle green,
fragments, striations of
bayberry darkness turning
heads in an eclipse stance.
An empty arena
in which I hang remnants of
fir tree cones,
cordons off the distant whistling of a train.
Muffled sounds: dark ray of
sunshine filled to the brim -
the trip behind a cloud, where stars are remnants
of a shooting puck.
This poem was originally published in the literary magazine Big Pond Rumours - Winter 2018 edition.