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Don
Don across the landscape, cohorts gleaming
tilting at juxtapositions, anguished lance
steelblue with longing for new conquest
Toy lover, spears fish from streams
crystal dreams with anachronisms for wings
Thus I remember him, a hybrid Don
quick as a key he slides into my mind
slotted in, double-imaged
A celluloid copy of himself, flower child
distributing petals, too perfect ideologies
garlanded in wonder every day excited him
each step a giant one, each breast a fount
each skirt a treasure trove
To plunge sweet words into willing sighs
after rock concerts
in twinned sleeping bags
on moonlit beaches where rows of breakers
chanted om and om again in white
absolute certainty that the world
was a good place
Down decades he wandered
distributing blooms, paling utopias
and tiny packets of seeds, replicas
of himself to sow in tearful
memory of his visits
This autumn, scores of strides away
these seeds, planted in abandon
have blossomed in wild loam
marking the paths and patterns
of his strolls
A daughter in Holland, two fresh
grandchildren on her lap, a book of verse
in French dedicated to Don on the off-white
inside flap, a son in Mozambique and
two more where Cape breezed fly and gulls screech
And here and there across the stretches
of a new country, little Dons and Donnas
are turning up in quaint corners
We’ off to visit him after all this time
this aging Don, sword still sharp, words still
golden honeyed, he’s over sixty now but
like the dandelion child of forgotten
innocence that he is – still full of
sweet wind-blown surprises
© Johnmichael Simon
2006
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