Tuesday, 17 March 2009


In June we meet again.

No baby this year, she explains
as we lie sideways on the couch,
her skin rough
like the heal of my foot.

And I dip my face into hers,
sopping her tears with my cheek.
Once we saw a snake
outside a shop, Bloor street,
slithering, confused
to be in a city,
not even looking
for his home,
not even trying
for a patch of grass.
I think of her only in winter:
skidding on beetle black streets,
raw skin and runny noses.
Or on the lake,
our bladed feet licking the crusty frost
as we glide, paths slicing
gutters onto the virgin ice.

Only in winter
did the soft parts under her eyes
turn red from the pawing winds.

Only in winter
Did she wear the snowflakes
about her like a veil.

Only in winter
could we make whole families
out of snow.
But it is June when we meet again.

And while lie sideways on the couch,
listening to our bodies
that breathe together,
I will ache for the winter.

Home at last
the first time in years.

V. Macdonald


No comments: