That Old Mill

is alive in the light of day

harsh wind grabbing
your windpipe, breath of winter-chill

icicle eyes staring dimly
at the scene, leftover pussy
willows as
stiff fingers beside river's bank.

Within view an ancient mill
memories
dulled
by the passage of time.

Images of life return as a photo
album, deer
within shadows
cows flicking horse flies

kids painting the barn and
three dogs chasing.

Childhood is splashing in the
creek, pages from life
a long time ago.


I Remember

Sister Pat's come a long
way since 1957
Alexandria, Ontario

then, crying and
screaming during the
storm of thunder, lightning
running room to room.

Now married, two
children, successful with
a lust for life, unafraid

but I can still see her,
dad's wrapped-around arms
saying, "It's alright."

And mom, solemn in her
walk around the house,
sprinkling
Holy Water in dark corners.

Shadows removed.

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