Stumbling Toward a Brampton Manor

Brampton, Cumbria, UK
July 12, 2018

When you exit the two-car train 

outside the village of Brampton 

and leave the lonely platform

tugging wobbly wheeled bags 

loaded with too much stuff 

the mile or two toward an old manor 

which your wife saw on the web 

and Google diverts you down a dwindling lane 

lined with loosestrife and ragwort  

where cattle crowd the mid-day shade 

and watch you weary on 

till the surface turns to gravel 

and your wife and daughter forge ahead  

while you tend bags beside the rusting gates 

of a deserted dairy farm 

composing prayers for traveling mercies 

parsing signs and portents 

as the Brampton black cat 

freezes your soul with yellow-green eyes 

and claims your suitcases 

well

this is when a lanky farmer named James 

ambles up, asks if you’re lost 

or Canadian 

then offers a ride in his sawdust truck 

and you choose to trust 

because this is Cumbria 

and life is good – 

your belly’s full 

and the sun held for one more day. 

Tomorrow, let it rain. 

Out as an Elder in June

Athens, Georgia
June 2018

I like to take a neighborly hike 

in the guise of an old man 

grasping a crooked walking stick 

with just a hint of a gimpy hip.

I am out before the heat, 

huffing up sunlit hills, 

passed by young runners 

and mothers rolling strollers.

They nod in my general direction, 

smile past the half-seen elder.

We share the same street 

but live in different worlds.

I walk as much in memory 

as in the searing moment.

I slip through years, 

misplace whole decades.

I zig-zag through shadows 

and pause in a pool of shade. 

A warm breeze sifts the mimosa 

and I breathe its pink sweetness. 

I study the borders of ragged lawns 

telling sumac from senna,

cats-ear from dandelion, 

wild petunia from woodland phlox.

A low drone fills the distance. 

The sun is high on my back 

as I saunter home through the green 

aroma of fresh-mown grass.

On the other side of sunset, 

I watch a field full of fireflies 

tracing seductive J-shaped loops 

as signs of love in the failing light. 

In the spell of affection, I nudge 

a young copperhead with the tip 

of my stick. He coils, then flows 
off the asphalt into the night.

Walking stick

Sumac