of

Posted on November 5, 2009 by riverwriter

I write this letter hoping that it will be found
and delivered to my family, whose address
is on the reverse. By my reckoning,
I have been on this island five months,
and have not seen a living soul in
all the time. Were it not for the moon,
I would begin to wonder if I am indeed
on planet Earth; for this place Continue reading →

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oof

Posted on November 4, 2009 by riverwriter

Fifty years paints that football field in golden sunlight;
the gray stone arches of Hart House echoed grunts
impact and college cheers. Born too late to go to war,
we knew some proof of manhood could be found there;
so we drove ourselves through repeated twilight drills
in pain and exhaustion and exhilaration in honour of some
unspoken code in autumn deference to real causes.

I was big, and the summer’s work in the bush had
left me strong enough to defensive play man over
centre and offensive Continue reading →

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roof

Posted on November 3, 2009 by riverwriter

When I was a kid, if I needed a place
to let my mind idle, our garage roof,
on the slope facing away from the house,
offered privacy and enough discomfort
to soothe my conscience: the shingles
were always too hot or too cold and hard.

From the garage roof, I could see stories
in the clouds above my head: rabbits chasing
foxes, a gnome leaping, a platter of ham
and mashed potatoes, always Continue reading →

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