By Strike-a-Light Creek
All the warmth has gone for the wall is broken.
I set out before all the quiet sleepers
wake in half-light, eyes without faces, ancient
I recall a story of one with flowers
woven through his hair in a blaze of fragrance,
bees a slap away from his nose and lashes,
almost a garden.
On his knees by Strike-a-Light Creek I find him;
at his side, mysterious lynxes open
crimson bottles, emptying all the liquid
into the water.
Find me first, he says, when I beg he help me,
something green and quick with the fleece of life.
One fern frond with four mossy worms aglow is
all I can manage.
Give me bands and brackets to tie my house up,
give me skills the carpenter plies his trade with,
quick, before the sleepers are crushed by roof tiles.
Here’s what he told me:
Leaf is mould when left on the ground to wither,
flame leaps high when breath gathers close to ashes,
calm will call for storm-heavy cloud to soak us
through to the body.
Yawn and stretch, then open your veins precisely,
know through blood that ceilings and walls will fall on
only those who keep all their birds in cages,
flowers in vases.
Cally Conan-Davies feels a great affinity for the star fish, beach stones, and sea birds of Oregon. And then there are the poems. Look for them in The New Criterion, Poetry, The Hudson Review, and sundry web-based journals.