I awoke at my contracted hour.
I’m a union man, after all. Checking
the weather and my resolve, I threw a
spanner into the gears of the day still
lurching to life; and went back to my bed.
I realize that it takes more than that
to kill the machine, but today let it
grind away without me. I’ll take to the
watershed with a new translation of
Virgil and Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks.
Let me sit upon a tectonically
exposed bit of bedrock as guiltless as
a bluebelly lizard in the warm sun,
and hear the whispering of the trees. And
hear the whispering of the trees. They whisper:
“Truant.” I’ll have to sit there and take it.
Carrying no lion pelt, no holy
images, I’ll wash my hands in running
streams regardless. I’ll breathe in, breathe out, and
receive the trees’ gentle admonishment.
Published in the White Pelican Review, Spring 2009, Vol. 10, No. 1