water flowers

you could sing

if you were the wind

sing

with your fingers

as they wove

tiny filaments

in and around

the cotton threads

of the sails

and your song

would be wordless

filled only

with the knowing

of the sky

the gurgling

of the noonday river

swirling in water flowers

the thick wash of the sun

glazing

the soft warm bricks

vanilla yellow

and not so very far away

the hollow

passing

of an oarless

rowboat

cos cob john henry twachtman

i arrived in canada - an immigrant child from england - forty four years ago today.

my father was waiting for us in the terminal in toronto.

i hadn't seen him for a year.

i thought it was a long time.

in the year he was gone

i had a recurring nightmare.

a man entered the bedroom in which i was sleeping

picked me up and threw me through the floor,

then i passed through the first floor

and then through into the cellar.

this is about being compelled to view,

become aware of,

and deal with my subconscious.

perhaps with my shadow.

here i am.

much more for the experience.