A Poem/Wednesday

I felt a change of pace coming on again this morning, Bush, something completely non-political. A poem called, "I Keep Coming Back."

I Keep Coming Back…

There he is, both hands
gripping the ropes that drop
down from the strong branch
of the pine tree.

There he is, swinging
back and forth, higher
and higher; the further
he tilts back on the seat,
the further he stretches
his feet out in front of him,
the higher he swings, the faster
he goes, so: whizz, forward,
past the tree trunk, feet out,
up, over the horizon, over
the distant valley, over
the tall chimney stacks
of the brick works, touching
sky; then fall, float, fly back
past the tree trunk, curled,
head forward, feet back,
way behind him, zoom.

There he is, before him
the deep rust sandstone
of the rough church walls,
pitched roof of the lychgate,
squat bell tower, parapeted,
gold hands of the clock.
(What time is it now, really?)
Behind, the dark, reflective
windows of the rectory,
stern, the big round hole
under the eaves, the one
where the owl flies in
and out. The stone steps.

There he is: short pants,
white shirt, v-neck open,
sandals; short brown hair,
round face, chubby,
freckles. Blue eyes.
Knuckles tight. Flying.

Don't know where that came from, once again, this morning, early. I must have written it a hundred times in different ways. It always seems important...