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Floyd Skloot

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Delius in Florida

Heavy heat and night haze off the St. John’s
brought song to Solano Grove. Hunting quail
and alligator, Delius heard a panthers
rasp for the first time. At noon, a man
was whistling in thirds through the thatch
of a sagging cottage as Delius drove
his wagon past. There was a lyric wind
at dusk coming from the twisted oak
where the road home forked and deckhands
from passing steamships sang the Lord’s praise.

All this black sound, and starless air,
and his father at last far across the dark
Atlantic. Perhaps music would be possible here,
its spirit awakening in him like a tropical dawn,
with sudden bursts of color. Or it might be
the magnolia scent, the twin palms shading
his verandah, even the withering orange
and pomelo crop only horses harvested.
How his father’s wool-dusted jowls would
quiver in rage at the waste. He would buy
the whole estate! Head back, Delius imagined
his music-loving father, friend of Joachim,
still scheming to keep him in the family trade.

Learn to manage, he had whispered at bedtime
to his growing son. His fathers hushed voice
was soon lost to the drone of cicadas deep
in the darkness and Delius the citrus farmer
closed his eyes, soaking up the close harmony
that rose from the river in place of the moon.

 

Untitled illustration


Floyd Skloot’s new collection The Evening Light recently appeared from Story Line Press. The Fiddlers Trance will appear in the fall from Bucknell University Press. He lives in Amity Oregon.

Page(s) 46-47

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