The Reeling, Lost Leaves

Leaves lurching in the wind like drunken sailors

And don’t tell me that is a trite term

Because that is exactly what they make me think of

Sailors on the docks in port at old-city Quebec

I was eighteen and free and there was a French boy

Who loved me and thought I had rejected him

When in fact I was only too shy to tell him

That I thought he was the most scrumptious thing

I had ever seen, black hair and black eyes and a carriage

That brought eighteen year old passion to a quick peak.

 We walked through the vintage streets hand in hand

Past shops and bars and inviting, romantic little haunts

I was wrapped in the feel of his skin and the smell of his hair.

  

But back to the leaves… the wind is patchy, coming in spurts

So that the leaves do this peculiar dance, akin to Indian powwow

Like Mother Earth herself, boogieing, a war dance!

A rolling in love which takes me back to the French boy

Why am I all caught up with this ancient memory of lust

While I watch the pitching of the leaves from my quiet window?

  

I wanted him to stagger and reel and sway towards me, relentless like

The frolicking loll of these vagabond leaves straying over my lawn

I wanted him to wander all over my life and keep moving in a dance

Reaching me in a heaving moment of declared desire and love

I wanted him to know how he had touched my young heart and soul.

  

Now I watch the leaves play a rock and roll while my mind weaves

This memory of the boy I could have rocked and rolled to eternity.

cailin raine