THE FOREST COMES BACK AFTER THE FIRE I'm not the maple yet. More of that tall pine from Norway. or a fruit tree you wouldn't recognise from your brief lessons in biology. Already, in my branches, fifty crows caw, a thousand squirrels’ nest. I face west where one dark lake is my left hand; and then east, where a rocky escarpment fills in for the fingers on my right. My torso is, as yet, a dark burnt patch interrupted by a few green seedlings. But soon enough I'll boast a chest A BOY THROWS ROCKS INTO THE LAKE He'll never run out of rocks and that lake is going nowhere. And the splash is seductive, I expect. It's not a loud noise but it's of his own making. But, eventually, cold gray rock won't be enough to satisfy his sense of touch. And the lake will be such a lazy target. Maybe he'll toss a leaf on the waters, watch it float. Or fish at its edge. Or paddle a canoe into its center. Or when he's old enough, he'll bring a girl here, wrap his fingers around hers, stare out at the glittering water together. He'll hug her slim waist, kiss her trembling lips. The rocks won't move. The surface won't ripple. But the earth is a different story. DARK OF THE DAY When I learn to see, the day will not be dark. Maybe blue and green. Like the blue and green of childhood. When I had a voice. And now I cannot speak any colour. I can only write it down. And when I learn to see, the page will not be blank. I will know what I have written. Like when I had a mind and I could understand it as well. I can only feel the words and there is no blue or green in them. They are colourless. When I learn to see, there’ll be payback of a florid kind.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books are Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside The Head and Guest Of Myself, available on Amazon.
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