Canal Reflection
Last year I took him along the canal
while his sister learned karatedo at the centre,
a cord round the handle bars of his first bike
looped round my wrist and into my palm,
an unsteady burden that marked my skin
when he would not pedal, so towed him
towards the bridge. The stabilisers gripped
and bumped over each rut and stone
on the path. We learned leaves as we went,
one from each tree, held by their stems
and fastened to a wind-shield of green.
We admired chestnut spread like a cartoon hand
and sycamores like stars on stalks.
We travelled with all the time in the world.
Each tree's image shone where it fell
on forgetful water. If some aspect was kept
he may never tell. I can only say
how he smiled with wide, voyaging eyes.
This year I sit on a concrete balcony
with my back against brick, so still
I forget where flesh ends and numb stone begins,
observe how his sister has already turned
the stiff rods of her body to canes of willow.
He makes his first turns in his crisp suit,
glances up to where I sit and nod approval,
lifts feet and curls fists, lesson by lesson.
Months pass before he looks down
when the sensei adjusts his stance.
I return to the path by the canal
where light falls on water and lilies open
as still as memory in a wind-shatterered world
where sprung green darkens and chest nut
in its shell grows its first skin.
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Colin
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