Cassie Bosley: On the Canal Towpath

Fall '08 TOC

We go for a walk, the dog and I.
I scrunch through dry leaves and old gravel.
She is silent on pads, stepping lightly.
She pounces,
           the smell-earth-warmth
                   the tremor of prey.
The sun sparkles on the river,
                   glitter on grey silk.
The blonde wood of a wind-torn sycamore
           points to the sky:
                   blue, endless ethereal blue.
The wind moves the trunks
                   old doors swinging in old hinges.
Crows fly by
                   harbingers of nonsense
                   I need to listen anyway.
The bluebells’ leaves thrust up,
purple-edged green, hints of buds
tucked down deep,
waiting for a warmer day.

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Not Enough Night
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