Under the shade of an acacia
In the summer heat
Your father pines for Autumn.
For the mulch and the wet bark,
For the damp cold grass
Which packs itself in messy tufts
Around the fenceposts.
I was eleven years old
And I put myself inside his mind
(For I had not yet lost that power)
And this is what I saw;
Twelve white peacocks flying west
Bringing in the dawn
And at their head a woman
Winged and beautiful
And in her hand a sword.
Sunlight, sprinkled like pollen, glistens on the waves below
Retreating from the golden shore
And breaking on rocks.
Their salt-spray, carried by the wind,
Blesses the spires of a temple
Like holy water
As priests in argent robes make their obeisance
Their faces tilted
As if some loving hand
Has lifted, with its gentle touch,
Their chins toward the sky
As you travel to be wed.
Lost in the gardens below
An old man is oblivious
To all but the murmur of a stream,
His bald pate shaded from the sun
By boughs that rustle overhead.
All set about with flowers,
He is following a rock-strewn path
And pays no mind to where it leads;
His destination is assured,
His head is a quail’s egg
Bobbing in a pond
And as he turns to me
My vision fades
To brilliant white
Swallowing all.
Your father pines for Autumn.
For the comfort of a bowl of stew,
The smell of wood smoke
And the russet-painted leaves
Which decorate the path
That beckons him
Carried on weary legs
Back to a rain-soaked door.