The shroud of smoke from the mainland fires is returning.
The cigarette-ash grey dome is returning,
with its swinging censer of bitter incense,
its pewter rinse.
You can see it in the hair of the prim couples on the glass patio,
down here in retirement central.
You can see it in on the russet hills
where the sweet-pea blooms burn bronze.
You can see it in the jaundiced dawn.
See how the sun looks like an overripe grapefruit,
or like a rolling ball-bearing of molten wrath
like what you imagined to be the eyeball of God
(blazing ring, furious nimbus, flaming wreath),
after those vivid revival sermons over at First Baptist
or Last Pentecost or the New Apocalyptic Apostolic.
Well, by now you know enough to wait for the rains to return.
You can pray, but there’s no bargaining chip,
no godly tic, no tell,
no hallowed ace in the hole,
no quid pro quo for good behaviour.
So worry no more.
We only grow this tall,
only see so far,
only get so many seasons,
and those are trouble enough, pain enough,
for our one shrouded smoky life.
Thus we go, into the haze, arms outstretched,
hoping for what we all hope for: to be held
with relentless tenderness.
Even “one shrouded smokey life” is worth the journey when ‘claimed’ by the ‘joy’ referenced in your previous one.
Well said. Thank you Ike.
So hopeful – thanks, Steve.
Thank you Sam.
YES! “Relentless tenderness” is demonstrated by the green growth in the Sturgeon River responding to high nutrition due to run off from fertilized farms in the water basin.
Thanks Raymond. That’s an interesting take.
The rains have come here. And the shape of clouds is apparent. The horizon returns but I must be still to feel that relentless tenderness. Your last lines so often bring tears of relief. This exceptional piece was no exception. Thank you.
Thank you so much Joyce.
Yes, tears of relief for me too. Thank you, Stephen, for bringing so much beauty to the world. From your neighbour on Salt Spring.
Thank you for your kindness Corrine.