Excited
red cheeked children yell with glee
at the jerking antics of a crazy yellow kite.
Sunday-keen Father struggles with his jiggling hat
while looking at his watch,
and, no doubt,
wistfully thinking of lunch and a beer.
Someones
crumpled old lunch bag races and chases and tumbles and twists
over winter greenbrown grass
– a puppet in the wind.
The river is confused; going nowhere;
flowing in all directions at once,
what with the ripples and ruffles
like a cats back when you stroke the fur the wrong way.
The evergreen. tubby squat bushes
gather the wind like billowing sails in a lake of parkland lawn.
The still naked twigs of birch trees spring and twist,
whipping and snapping amongst themselves.
The gusts snatch at my scarf
which skips and prances around my head,
dancing to no apparent rhythm.
Normally this is a quick march to the corner store
but today the gale slows me.
Pushing prodding teasing.
I’m in a hurry, but I don’t expect the wind cares.
Toronto; March, 1970; published in Ad Hoc, student Newspaper, Humber College, Rexdale, Ontario; April 22, 1970
