A poem by Roger Hare

Our poem du jour comes from Roger Hare, a recently retired community worker with an interdisciplinary and collaborative interest in all the creative arts. Although Roger’s poetry is new to me, this poem spoke to me much like Matthew Paul’s poems yesterday spoke to me. Contrails were once such a common occurence that I very rarely paid any attention to them. Now that planes no longer incise the sky with their jet engines (and that’s a good thing) they suddenly become interesting. Roger’s poem is also a message of strength.

 

Contrails Become Clouds

as their careful incisions in the sky
are teased into trails,
blown into diminishing swathes,
whispering
whisper
wisp.

Scalpel lines in our lives
are not so carelessly disposed of –
the courage of our own breath
being the wind it takes
to dilute memory to vapour.

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