Dreams of Leaving (Poetry)

It is a good morning for leaving —
the sky has promise in it —
although the day could turn out anyhow
the whole gamut of possibilities strung out
across an infinite horizon
like a giant’s washing line —
all those clean-smelling larger-than-life identities
pegged out in an April sun’s spotlight —
that feeling I could change into any one of them —
metamorphose and become the old dream —
dress up for some occasion — dance the dance
in a grander more spacious ballroom.

The gate is open — anticipating a goodbye —
a fare-thee-well of flowers nodding by the path
and whispers in the grass —
will she, won’t she —
the spirit already run on ahead and calling from
                                the hills —
a child impatient for adventure
while the agéd heart holds back
taking stock of rooms and memories —
anchored here yet tugging to be free
of too much ballast — all these clinging years
impossible to shed in one great shrug
to leave me weightless — thoroughly released.

The clouds are shunting out their pale smoke train
thin across the prairie’s wide blue space
and I should catch the morning while I can —
travel light — make good a clean escape
in a new skin — paper ready for the ink
of a different journal — one I started planning long ago
in the grey shadow-husks of winter evenings —
snow inching round the corner of the door
to remind me how cold creeps —
invades everything — slows thought
to a long meandering crawl — shackled
to whatever comfort can be found in familiar places.

Now words explore while I sit in my chair
observing how the trees lean in the wind —
accept my limbs are heavy — loathe to rise
and follow impulse. I keep the vision close
with promises — tomorrow — or next year
I will move on — wherever the road takes...