“In a Child’s Voice” by Colin Nickle

Sketching unalterable dreams on a napkin

In a cloud burst of memories

The canons one puts one’s trust in

Presume more authenticity

And sense of boundlessness

Where truth meanders and percolates

In hearkening shadows of pasts

In contrary light forms.

As a child I loved myself first

From nature’s breath through to the marrow

As from early spring

To just before snow ski time

I move celebrating this new body

In acres of sandy fields

Laden with long golden sweet grass.

Challenging my relentless rigourousness

My first and true labours of life

Were in my private oasis

Of aberrant weeping willow trees

Set mightily old

In the midst of long abandoned farmland

They reached beyond the plateaus

Of mostly cloudless skies

Climbing, reaching, stretching

With a child’s fingers

The expansive being

Grasped at from the roof of my treehouse.

I laid bare my innocent soul

To literally encompass my trees

With my little arms

Imbued with the peaceful force

Of my open country prayers

Safe to act and feel

Even more independently on my own.

My view of receding horizons made me more

Worthy of the spheres

While the moon learns a lumbering dance

From the sparkling stars surrounding it.

Such capricious escapades

Play fanciful hot and cold

As my completeness of a day

Gathers up in my body collectively

With sound and point of motion

My seasonal legs

At one with my undaunting paths

And sky arched retreat of open heights

Each day an anxious migrancy.

Ceaseless were the days of music

In margins of towered leaves

Shouting high groves of impact

I stand among crags and plateaus

Gathering my joys among the airs

In permanent wrestling

With immortal delight and triumph.

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