From My Easy Chair

I hear the geese have been heard
Overhead again
Now winter’s hasty winds have slowed.

I hear the brittle teeth of ice
Break upon the shore,
Leave slumping dunes like sunken gums behind.

And out in Tracadie gulls gossip now
Above the shrinking harbour
Concerning tumultuous terns,

And each cries to the heavens daily
Over black masses
Of congregating cormorants.

When I have sat a little longer
I may take a walk out there
(Or maybe some other calls of nature
Might pry me arse from this goddamn chair).

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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