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The Same Thing
Memory still anoints them,
glowing in the ashes
of childhood. The cypress trees
in the parkland at the end
of the street. Tall, knotted
ladders to the heavens
where a child’s outstretched hand
could almost scratch the underbelly
of passing clouds.
You could swing
on the uppermost branches
as if riding a clippers mast
bending in the wind,
sailing imaginary swells
to places whose golden domes
shone through the darkest
days.
And in the cool shadows,
the old stable, its doorway
an entrance to worlds
not known to other mortals.
The dark interior lipped
on the edge of a cave
to the very interior of earth,
holding hells and lava
lapped islands populated
by exotic beasts.
Such things as trees
and tumbled down stables
were not weighted
with the burdens of this world
but were bridges, magical
doorways to an elsewhere
that existed in between,
a special place
with its contours bending
to shapes made in the mind.
I write
to do the same thing.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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