Portent.............. Poem by John Tansey

Sliding my chair into the sunlight
Of your mother’s garden,
It is always in the Spring and Summer
That I fear the cold most.

Relaxing in anticipation
Of the sun on my back
Like your mothers garden tomatoes:

Each one, a sun on the vine,
is like a lemon wedge, peeled back
when all my limbs go lax;

Then, suddenly, a chill
And, invariably, you say,
“Someone just ran over your grave.”

But no, it’s a chill of the heart,
Not the air; For Christ, my crucifix
Has fallen to the floor.

And, like faith’s first early morning frost,
I grab both my short-sleeved arms
And shiver, with dread…

At whatever future blackness
Comes bellowing past.