We four in the wake of the rock
that fell in the night in the dark
went searching for Emily Carr's home
in the ground this day (surrounded
by crayons and flowers they say)
Blind as a pair of eyes we entered
into her rest as I took the steps,
walking the grass pushing up daisies
Easter Saturday in the cool sun ("Ah,
I should have brought a paintbrush!")
And she was the waves that crashed
but did not fall, or fell but did then lift
after soaking three days -- Emily Carr!
Artist and Lover, the smallest stone in
the corner, just where we left her
past Douglas and Margaret Helmcken
(they named the hospital after him)
Charlie Moss whose soul is like the
wings of his beloved birds. Norman
Kirk, may your stone tree grow strong.
The bay twinkles with their souls,
bright red sails and rainbow kites.
Your mum pulls weeds, stooped, around
her daffodils. "So pretty," she mutters,
"mmm, there were tulips at one time."
Later we clear the boxes of old frames
and all the devastating, disgusting things.
Journal in arm, knuckles smudged with ink,
a firm, open hand, perfect for a heart:
Don't fall today, I longed, and agreed
Carol Reed's The Fallen Angel did show
a lack of integrity, a happy ending that
did not belong, wasn't right -- not the
mad twinkle of Orson's mysterious smile:
"We're like crows. Anything that glitters."
2012
