Gordon Lightfoot Poem by L.B. Temuco

In the warm ambience
of human voices -
flushing, exhausting the poison from images -
different tongues
pass like seasons
through conversations
meanings age and roll
over and over like logs
'..when the gales of November
come early..) , on the lake
they call Blood Under The Mountain
the raven (he lay spent,
molten in its burning wings)
and the forest the same
rich veins take everything
the beauty is unimaginable
it hides in itself
with only slits for eyes
and the sky is a journey
the Cherokee wore her face
she gave him her mouth to talk to
her eyes fill his lungs every morning
her hair the dark fleece
the night wears
the black butterfly beating itself
against the window
it is mid-morning and already
he is saying goodbye, he has slept and
stayed with himself for too long
the string feels loose in its bow
mornings like this are like strangers
that step out from behind trees
as you pass by, disturbing the peace
that had been found
the tumour that had been shrunk
the heart wants everything though
to be in every city, in all its streets
in all its cafés, listening
hopelessly watching the door