b a r b a r a  f l e t c h e r: other poems


Red Fingers

I am a half hour out of Toronto
and the rust-coloured dust of back roads
along the edges of the Niagara Escarpment
paints my car with the red grime
that stains hands.

Then I see them from the road,
circled by cornfields and grass:
the series of alien red rock formations
that look like an old farmer's fingers
interlocked in quiet acceptance;
digits blood-red and worn
against the wall of carving glaciers.

This time I lie down in a crease
and place my ear to the stone,
waiting to hear the story of
the gouging of land by ice,
about the journey of red earth
to Olde Base Line Road.
But the rock is silent, dusty, still;
all narrative fossilized into red fingers.