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.
