Oldfashioned double red roses

glow in the setting sun.

 

The air is fresh with pine

silhouetted against a navy sky with diamonds.

 

Evening is a gray blanket to cover the child

who has nodded off against your shoulder

on the chair-swing.

 

Smoke wafts from cigarettes that glow in the dark

like fireflies.

 

The distant tang of wood smoke whispers

of dinners cooked in ovens fuelled by burning birch,

of marshmallow roasts

and the coming winter.

 

Small animal eyes

gleam like pairs of earrings

from the bushes bordering the lawn.

 

Urban amenities

like pine air fresheners

and floral perfumes

don’t suffice to summon up this place in memory.

 

There are diamonds

like snowflakes and stars

and tattoos of trees

roses, rabbits,

and words like “love”

but nothing evokes an entire place.

 

There should be something

like a nicotine or a hormone patch –

a stick-on aide-memoire

to bring it all back

when you can’t be there.

Originally published in White Wall Review 27 (2003)