by M.G. Warenycia
Under gable and turret shadows weave
Over painted brick with ivy fingers
Lacing through flower-carved eaves
Where the stranger’s meditation lingers
As laughter floats through linden leaves.
Dormer and bay peep with yellow lights
At the velvet dark of the summer night.
The streets this late are good for wandering,
Empty, so the thoughts can crowd for pondering.
The pho joint’s still there, and the cheapo beer,
But the bookstore’s a ghost, and posters few
Tell of ‘scenes’ vanished like the dew,
And the light in the parkette is admitting to fear.
The subway lurches a final shudder;
For homebound drunks the streetcar tolls—
Sounds that recall days of learning and leisure
As hard to hold on to as wayward souls.
Their rented fortress was a fragment in time
As fabled and fragile as the city’s clime,
Whose earnest languor makes the heart grow sick
While darkness deepens and memory flows thick;
Hurry, like a leaf upon wind-lashed stream,
Along the pavement, where neon ripples gleam
Warm as once was spring’s rosy dream.
Snow to Sand: Poetry, Stories and Musings from Canada, the Caribbean and Ukraine 