book and leaf
those
afternoons
i’d take
a swag
of books
out there
under one
of the trees
in the
yard
peach
plum
nectarine
apple
open a book
under the leaves
bobbing with shadow
fresh or late
green crinkled
with spreading brown
like the back of my
father’s hand
read on
in the mist
of words
rising in the
quiet the far
mountains
of northern
lands above
it
look up in
one moment
one moment
like a stick
holding in the
stream gone
under again
stretch out
my legs
know blood
under young skin
dream going down
in the bone
in night’s canyons
into theatres
garish paintings i
had made of
a young self
in the back room
of self hung
on unsteady walls
always a sailing
like an arrow
in cloud
loosed into
distance
the wine of journey
drunk deep from
the cup of
the sky.
february 2011
Copyright ©2011 Peter Le Baige. All Rights Reserved
The music is from a 1962 performance by Andres Segovia of the galotte from Manuel Ponce’s Suite in D major.
Ruru ki Te Ruru 
I think this poem is a lament…today the boy would likely be scrolling through youtube on his ipad…whatever the method I suppose we’re still eager for information! many hours under trees myself with books. sticks in the rivers
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Ha, yes, you’re right, Steve of Dean, it’s a lament in more ways than one. I guess I still prefer the book for it’s texture, the turning of leaves like those that were above me in light and shadow.
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