Plans Deranged by Time: The Poetry of George Fetherling

First Signs of Wartime Spring

First Signs of Wartime Spring Eleven ships in English Bay this morning impatient for their turn at the gantries ten or more every day so far this month business in China must be good cherry blossoms underfoot like confetti once the echoes evaporate I leave my footprints until the next breeze. The Americans have a new war that’s how we know the generations have changed but we’re not headlines we don’t need verbs to validate ourselves. To the east, the shoulder of the sky is hunched in back of the sun, still arguing for acceptance begging us to go there. The strategy is to let the future emerge a little at a time that we might grow accustomed and not protest or go mad. The window opens so briefly that we cannot throw out the words. This will have to do for now. Mountains to the north zoom in on people currently between destinations it’s time to harvest the lessons tomorrow is deep yesterday shallow sometimes the other way round. Be like the cave-dwelling hermit who learns from the mute and mocks the big yellow bruise. Slideshow over, the screen goes white we revert to ritual avoidance of rituals as practised by lordly bureaucrats who seldom deviate from what they receive. 50 / Plans Deranged by Time The meaningless courage of the entourage fails them as usual. Dawn dusk inhale exhale at night when the stars tremble we will have no comfort to offer consumed as we are in events we observe yet refuse to follow. Old before my time in relation to the time available I spend my declining years declining to accept struggling to continue trusting the voice that is the public function of the heart. In the end, succour finds its own level everyone fingers everybody else everyone forgives everybody else we’re all subsidiaries of one another whatever I know I’ve learned by eavesdropping. Vancouver, April 2005 The Poetry of George Fetherling / 51 ...