October 2009

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Holy hour in Hintonburg

The dwindling day
reaches with wrinkled hands
over the rootops
of Hintonburg to press
its final rays of light
in patches of bleach
onto the angled walls
of alley ways
and old tenements
already asleep in
the soft summer dusk.
Shadows lean like
pick-up sticks
along the red baked bricks.
An old Chinese man
pulls a cart with
wonky wheels
past the Elmdale tavern,
and a woman with
hair the colour of straw,
climbs three dead steps
to an ancient door
and there is a No. 2 bus
threading east
through a maze of dust
and construction cones.
I stand in the cool
of St. Francis church,
still as a stone in
an evening pool.
All is perfect,
the great walls
the twilight hush
the dogs no longer barking,
and the cross fixed
high to the heavens.
The street lights blink.
I close my eyes and
lick the light like lemon
from the lamp posts.

© 2009