Destructive creation
From the clouds it came
where it had been lying in wait
cracking open the sky
striking the ground
burrowing deep into the soil
snaking under rocks
gobbling old dry rot
igniting networks of roots
buried secret embers
traveling meters and miles
no rainfall to drown
its silent heat
days later it explodes up
into the clear hot light of day
breathing in endless air
exhaling sparks into the wind
a scorching dance of drought
wildfire forged by lightning
Enchantments of Hopscotch
The sidewalk is propped up
by the roots of elms
each paving block
at a different angle
some running odd cracks
others overlapping
no longer able to resist
the forces of nature
prodding and lifting from below
We stand around
chalks in hand
designing the grid around
over and between the fissures
and twists of the sidewalk
We decide which end
will be the start and finish
how large the squares
and even whether to try
making them even
or go with the up down
sideways tilts and flows
of the cement sections
At last someone starts
and we all fall to
drawing our game
adventurously with
thirteen spaces instead of
the usual ten
The uneven surfaces
bounce our scotches awry
testing our balance
with each teetering hop
and bruising trip
Laughing and screaming
we rename the game
witch scotch to honour
the number thirteen
and the tricky lay of the land
requiring magical powers
to successfully navigate
Finally the shadows tell us
it is dinnertime
our tummies rumbling
affirmations of appetites
scotch stones are laid aside
chalks rounded up into their box
As we turn to head home
a patter of raindrops hints
at mysterious disappearances
of lines and numbers into
cracks and crannies of the night
The witch hopscotch still haunts
my memories all these years later
every time I encounter
a rooted-up sidewalk
begging for chalk and stones
High road
Curving around the mountain
we heard it
before we saw it
a roar of water
cascading from above
and on down into the ravine
and there it was
a huge gap
along the centreline
the outer half of the road
was hanging on
quivering in time to the flood
our van crept forward
trembling
hugging the mountainside
would we be
the straw that broke
the tarmac’s back
not a single breath
fixed in our seats
staring at the road
willing it to hold together
as the water pushed
and we swayed
then we were through
behind us death
ahead a camping trip
a day in the life
of the Tsilhqot’in
near Lillooet
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