War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

Suffield tree

they say l sing the dead
my worthless words so damned
needy; my fingers grasp, tap
a lidded laptop
like roots into hard, dust-bowl soil;
I am alone, I am scorched,
like the roots of that tree
razor-wired, I am shadeless,
like that tree
in the desert of Suffield,
down the long gravel
road, into the valley,
the valley that casts
no shadow, that valley
where boys I once knew
laughed. boys that are gone,
cannot return. boys I saw last
a maple leaf cinched and strapped
their country’s embrace, their mother’s
embrace, the kiss, last kiss
on their grave. that kiss so warm
so cold. they say I sing the dead
but I am so damned alone,
like that tree at Suffield.
razor-wired. rootless.
cannot sing.

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled Suffield tree. It was posted here on August 27, 2010.


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