The Green Muse

The Charolais cows were licking the sky

from the field of France

for want of salt

in God’s left ear

where he pressed heaven

with his bountiful blue mind

 

and whenever I saw them I  said

“come to me, my lovelies”

and they turned their big white faces

to the fence, came heifering over

to watch my movement

while one true moth

fluttered up and out of my hand

hovering above my open palm

like the amazed eyelash of child 

with faith in miracles

before lost chivalry first fell to flowers

and I believe as well

in the purposeful perfection 

of prayer

as I believe in the coming again 

of tomorrow’s dew-blessed dawn

and only the next day

in Paris

I walked under

the window

that sheltered the small room

where the French poet Verlaine 

passed into paradise

those many years ago

like the last wormwood hallucination

of a painting vanishing in rain

what it is

that blinks to black

this dark acid splash of dying

the night of the night

when evening isn’t there

the hollow O of a waterless well

the dry-tongued words that taste of stone

and the same day

I saw the oldest tree in Paris

the false acacia

leaning into pillars

and chinked by cement

but still living

still lingering

where the very road 

once carried commerce 

through Lyon and on to ancient Rome

and also I saw the statue of Napoleon

coppering up on the obelisk

built from ten thousand captured cannon

melted down to make that slender plinth

and also 

the spire of Egypt

graying into empire

since before became before

when time was first inventing itself

in the books and stories

of the self-considering

mind of man

and which of these greens 

will I choose


the poisonous green

of Verlaine’s absinthe

the penny-green of the crown

of the Corsican runt

that laurelled his corporal skull with a copper thought

or the leaf-green life

of the oldest tree

that stood dropping its shade 

in the square 

by the church

or the pasturing 

ruminant green

of the daily hunger of cows

I am writing 

of cud, as if of this bolus

of the third result

the supper of supper

I cannot dream

without eating 

the dreaming of green.

Winner of Winston Collins/Descant Prize for Best Canadian Poem 


Previous
Previous

When Love is Like Knocking the Clay from the Plough

Next
Next

Bringing the Farmhouse Down