Between Clods, Stars

by Allan Lake

Farmer uncle was bent out of shape

but only physically, a right angle

that somehow remained a gentle

straight-shooter. Polio: pre vaccine.

Bailing hay, milking cows, shovelling

shit. Squirted warm milk straight into

my mouth one time. Farmer’s missus,

my aunt, had MS because lightning

can strike a family twice. Uncle ex-

pired then aunt, hoisted in hospital

bed, only wanted to talk about how

my family was doing, way down

there in Australia, since migrating

from wheat-field / white field,

flattened by nature Canadian prairie.

Naturally, they departed the way

they’d lived, without any fuss.

Wingless, hobbled angels doing

their chores right there among us.

I took them for granted but, older

now, think of them if I’m feeling

low or hard done by. No need

to scan the night sky; there are

a couple of stars planted deep in

that dark North American loam.