(June: Williamstown, Ontario)
Don McKay
The light, though full of motion,
neither falls nor pours
into the clearing, but as it enters, ebbs
back into itself:
we float off from the porch,
letting its tug entice us
to the path. What used to be basswood leaves
are silver gloves that beckon,
this way, this way,
down to the abandoned tracks.
The old rails,
who spend their days becoming rust,
are glimmering with distance, tracks left
by some ardent creature we have just missed seeing.
Fortunately.
Where can they be pointing?
Not to Cornwall, Ontario.
Not to any place I'd care to put a name to.
