A Poem for Monday

Leafdrop by J. Child

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Revelation, it seems, is not limited to mountaintops.

A hilltop will do.  At least to begin.

There we stop, wombfruit taking my hand and nestling in.

Newly shorn, the hayfield rolls away into the mist.

He gazes saucer eyed and heart-ful.

I gaze, grieving.

Heart-sick for the swathes of gold, given way to stubble and new green.

The horizon is vast and wide; a map of promise unrolling before us.

So much beauty in hues of green and gold.

Bitterblind I see none.

The hay is gone.

 

Inexorable childhood he tumbles on, and on,

Crunching copper, whooping joy as leafdrops

come and come.

Hay subsides to leaflife in my pondering pursuit

Relics now,

Like so many digital files and status updates.

A catalogue of memories of seasons past.

Is it a dance of graceful retreat

That they beat?

Or are they fluttering freedom flags, full of hope?

But hope for what?

To fertilise the orchard floor

And no more?

 

Were I a leaf, I should be

A petiole pinching miser, no doubt

Like King Midas and his gold

I would not let go, would wait it out.

But if the leaf does not fall, then what?

Creeping cold and insidious rot?

A bundle of sticks beneath my arm,

Carrying nature with me

To keep a child calm.

No ordinary sticks you see

But weapons of heroes from imaginary lands

For me a burden

Mine enemies to bludgeon

Or seek relish in self flagellation?                                                                                            

 

Small knowledge is such wisdom.

Open hands and life for the taking,

The grasping, clenching fist holds nothing,

Even a palm’s blood seeps through fingers twisted

Gnarled by hatred.

I breathe deep,

Must let the past sleep;

Rouse myself to the possibilities

Of love and grace and all his tender mercies.

Like a child I must become

To enter his kingdom.