Poetry

Sunday in Guildwood

The heat-buzzer insect,
harbinger of torpor—
such a good day
to tumble into the lake.
And old mister Sigurdsen
taking a stroll,
his china dogs cool
back in the home,
the woods a new place—
arms that hewed trees
meet bark cracked like skin.
Green shadows in his eyes
and the air like clear syrup—
nothing more than crawls,
stumbles, rests,
on the high shingled bluffs.
His grandchildren sit
in the GO train station,
hard, cold as soda,
snack-bar radio
jangling, toes tapping.
Disappointed, time to go.
The roots are rough,
the branches distant,
the sun accusing,
the soil fresh and soft.
The train is coming.
Such a good day
to tumble into the lake.