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                                              “ruddy crows!”
                                said my Dad early into the evening
                                as they called their territory deep into the weekend
                                in the elms and oaks between gardens
                                                down the hill

                                              was the only time
                                I noticed him as we gathered paper bags
                                and stood on the concrete yard high under
                                the darkening steel-yellow sky blew them up
                                and popped them all over the neighbourhood

                                              they lifted
                wraith-like into the sky
                                the branches regained and leaned averse to canopy
                                an early lesson in power as the evening gathered
                                I dared not look back to see if they returned





branches wormhole: the en-gentled / end of a wan / writing retreat
childhood wormhole: ‘just popping down / to the shops’
crow wormhole: ‘once upon a quarter century …’
Eglinton Hill wormhole: still there?
evening wormhole: the chiropodist
garden wormhole: sounds // suddenly / stop
hills & sky & yellow wormhole: the poppies / of van Gogh
oak wormhole: across the room / through the patio doors / through the conservatory windows / at the bottom of the garden / the still bifurcated trunk of / the oak / before the let-grown hair and fringes / of the fir tree / blown every lifetime in a while by the winter sun // actually
sound & speech wormhole: in the middle of silence and heat:
time wormhole: the Buddha head in an antique shop