Ian Pople
Among the Tlingit
If I decline all that and steering wind
leads me through night to meagre villages
beyond the rail-head, the vein's
vague hair is a cow path over meadows.
Above my tousled bed a poker work
'Our Father' shows a child in dungarees
kneeling. When I wake, a ghost across a pond,
drowned faces rise like a cat's that sniffs
the hot exhaust beneath a car. The morning
dreams itself away. I watch a heron
rise against the sky and lightning strikes
the other shore as if I'd been in one
of the first photographs and, given the print,
found me quite new and yet not clear,
the picture not as good as the mirror.
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