Late in the season the sun arcs low
and I fork the garden stolidly amid
fibrillating shadows of poplar leaf.
A friend just died yet under today’s
blue sky there’s little room for grief.
Let Barry be that billowing contrail,
poleward its bearing, a faint rumble
heard only as the vapour unfurls.
Tundra under snow
the bay freezing up
steward closes the flight log
the passengers doze
newspapers breathing
magnetic deviation increasing
autopilot switched on
Passing above the apple tree,
two crows in tight formation
coil through the air, entwining,
soaring above the cancer blight,
their ballistics spun from delight.
How the poplars cheer them on!
To the west grandfather is making
a cloud with his tobacco smoke.