LYNCH'S LANE

like black lines burned in wood

with a glass for focusing

the sun in a point

Lynch's Lane is etched in my body:

the first orange popsicle

later lime grape pineapple even

but none ever tasted as good

as the first orange popsicle

of summer with mosquitoes

sweat stinging sunburn

water and tar on the lane

to keep dust down

Skipper mowing the grass

with whistles of the scythe

autumn potatoes no bigger

than jumbo marbles boiled

in the skins sprinkled

with salt the world afire

in squashberry crumbles bakeapple jam

blueberry pies partridgeberry jelly

the wind rustling restlessly

with Cec, Frazer, Macky,

my brother, and me playing war

cricket kick the can at day's end

sucking icicles knocked from the eaves

hot cocoa drunk over the furnace grate

Old Mrs. Eaton climbing Lynch's Lane

grasping the fence like a ladder

picket after picket gasping through wool

noses pressed to frosted windows

homemade bread with Good Luck margarine

howling winter winds the house like an ark

mothers calling, Where are you going?

You can't see your noses

orange sherbet dipped in chocolate

the pink flesh of fried trout

all the neighbours in their yards

shovelling snow searching for crocuses

fallen leaves holding the sun

and cutting shapes in ice

everywhere the air lemon

smell of freshly washed cotton

the world melting splashing washing

away like saints in the River Jordan

like black lines pricked in skin

with a needle for focusing

India ink in a point

Lynch's Lane is tattooed in my body: