Poem no.21: This Page
No boundaries mark this open page.
Yet on the broad-horizoned land,
Fields, mended hedges, broken walls
Mark exactly where I may not go.
A page – this page – is open to the sky.
Times past, on snowy winter days
Three small girls
Slid, shrieking, down a frosted hill.
Boundaries were a whispered dare.
A looming thrill.
Only a final curve – a tipping point
Moments before disaster–
Drove us deep into the snow
Not pinioned on leafless briars
Behind the cold barbed wire.
We raced through crop-filled summer fields,
Picked raspberries and blackberries,
Sweetening our lips and nights
Tasting summer and autumn on our tongue.
Only in adolescence
Did we then find ourselves
Drawn to the edge of things;
Moving towards the boundaries of the day.
Hold the book. Open the page.
This page – this page – is open to the sky.
© Anne McMaster 2016