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Such a strange thing
memory
with vivid childhood
startling our thoughts.
We rose early
my sister, my mother and I,
walking the village miles
that led to the strawberry fields.
The sun was low
flaming its jets of gold
at our squinting eyes,
Nottawasaga burbled as it ran beneath
the bridge, leaping rocks where
gemstones flared . . . and birds!
Oh, but there were birds;
cliff swallows darting like small
black arrows
into the river banks, cardinals
red as the living flash of garnets
below the elms, sweet brown notes
rippling from the humble-berry bush.
I was so young
every tiny thing was delight
to me. The air smelled
of dew drenched grass and butternuts
as we went to our strawberry fields.
Summer burned and sang and grew
through my veins like tendrils,
runners to bind me to my
memories.
Eyes split with sun and laughter.
The smell of green.
Garnet birds.
And strawberry fields.
Forever.
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