Hear the Kingfisher

Awkward Human Folly



As sea mist fogs my window, I no longer

see the pair of swans lift up on webbed feet,



shake out wings and beat the blues

for suns return. I miss their long landings



on orange pontoons, the swish of water

parting, wake soft under their white chest



as they settle into their favorite chair.

All this white surprises me,



as did the wind dying yesterday,

when I watched a lone man with his ice boat



slip and stumble across the bay, dragging

dead sails behind him on his long ice walk,



with no neck in a graceful S-curve, wings

broken and his voice hissing low grunts.




Old Furrows



Last night, we dined on plump

white asparagus served on cheerful



china plates with a crevice for mayonnaise.

(The chateau has been restored



to a desideratum of elegance and culture

by Madame & Monsieur Tormos.)



As we tucked in, Madame Tormos said, The garden

was sown on top of ancient monks graves.



She tends the vegetables today with a care

which harkens to old days of Saint George,



before the sound of hob-nail boots marching

into her hall, or smell of burning panel walls.



Villagers blasted out from blood and barbed wire,

changing bread-line crumbs into wheat fields,



ploughing pain into the earth

and seeding old furrows with poppies.



Now the abbeys red brick wall, topped with red tiles,

seems a perfect buttress against any kind



of perpetration. The wall, centuries older

than any of us, withstood five hundred years



of occupations. This year a Nazi helmet

was dug up in the garden;



it hangs on a hook in the stables.