Poem: A Path to a Better Tomorrow.
I walk along the path through the park
winding along next to the creek. The
trees now gold and crimson light the
way in the midday sun. All plans were
cancelled. This is all that's left.
This is all that's left.
I consider the creek as it meanders
nearby: the water flows over the jagged
rocks, rushing, screaming, screaming
knee-deep through its latest channel,
crashing over shallow rapids imitating
its greater siblings in the wilderness,
in the wilderness far away from here.
There are no fish.
I see no fish in the creek and I think
about how the upper channels were cast
in concrete. They were cast some time
before I was. The river up there flows
too fast. The water up there is too
violent.
The creek can't meander.
Creeks want to meander and the concrete
shackles hold them back. There are
reasons for channelizing but we don't
need to know anymore. We don't live in
the floodplain.
The squirrels are minding their own
business. I hear them shuffling through
the undergrowth of the woods in the
ravine. I see them gathering up food.
They know winter is coming.
Winter is coming
to the ravine.
Winter is coming to the ravine and I'm
just passing through on an October wind,
an October gale carrying shivers like
the calls of the crows. I'm passing
down the creek, careening through the
riffles and drowning in the pools,
battering myself on the jagged rocks.
I stop to stare for a moment.
I stare
at the foam
collecting on the rocks
at the rapids
thundering downstream
at the squirrels
preparing for time
at the trees
shedding their vibrance
at the algae
existing.
I stop to stare for a moment.
I listen.
I take it all in.
I begin walking down the path once
again. I am just walking along a path
in a park winding along next to a creek.
This is my day. This is my time.
This is all that's left.
"A Path to a Better Tomorrow", 10 November 2006. Drawn from a walk along Highland Creek after a cancelled class in my final year at the University of Toronto Scarborough.
winding along next to the creek. The
trees now gold and crimson light the
way in the midday sun. All plans were
cancelled. This is all that's left.
This is all that's left.
I consider the creek as it meanders
nearby: the water flows over the jagged
rocks, rushing, screaming, screaming
knee-deep through its latest channel,
crashing over shallow rapids imitating
its greater siblings in the wilderness,
in the wilderness far away from here.
There are no fish.
I see no fish in the creek and I think
about how the upper channels were cast
in concrete. They were cast some time
before I was. The river up there flows
too fast. The water up there is too
violent.
The creek can't meander.
Creeks want to meander and the concrete
shackles hold them back. There are
reasons for channelizing but we don't
need to know anymore. We don't live in
the floodplain.
The squirrels are minding their own
business. I hear them shuffling through
the undergrowth of the woods in the
ravine. I see them gathering up food.
They know winter is coming.
Winter is coming
to the ravine.
Winter is coming to the ravine and I'm
just passing through on an October wind,
an October gale carrying shivers like
the calls of the crows. I'm passing
down the creek, careening through the
riffles and drowning in the pools,
battering myself on the jagged rocks.
I stop to stare for a moment.
I stare
at the foam
collecting on the rocks
at the rapids
thundering downstream
at the squirrels
preparing for time
at the trees
shedding their vibrance
at the algae
existing.
I stop to stare for a moment.
I listen.
I take it all in.
I begin walking down the path once
again. I am just walking along a path
in a park winding along next to a creek.
This is my day. This is my time.
This is all that's left.
"A Path to a Better Tomorrow", 10 November 2006. Drawn from a walk along Highland Creek after a cancelled class in my final year at the University of Toronto Scarborough.