Andrew Nicoll(poem) "Chopping Cherry Logs" in Lit Pot

CHOPPING CHERRY LOGS

Poetry by Andrew Nicoll

Like the bursting of a bottle, the steel-split wood
Sent the scent of summer on an airborne flood.
The sweetshop smell of cherries wafted round my head,
Like a memory of blossoms from a tree long-dead,
And the winter darkened wood-shed with its winter piles of logs,
And the winter piles of wood-chips that sheltered winter frogs,
Were driven back by sunshine and lying under trees,
A womanąs fond embraces and the murmuring of bees.
The split wood lay there whitely and I raised it to my nose,
But the summer scent was fading and -- the way old loving goes -
It stole out to the garden and disappeared at last,
The cold and darkness took it, the present took the past.
A memory of a memory was all that stayed behind,
And the harder that I looked for it, the less there was to find.
But it came again that evening when the fire had burned to grey,
And I closed the door behind me and went out on my way,
Like the echo of an honest word or a brave thing or a hope,
The smell of cherries filled the street, carried on the smoke.

§ § §

Andrew Nicoll is 41, married with three children and lives in a tall Victorian house by the beach on the east coast of Scotland. His first published poem appeared in Lit Pot last year. Short stories have appeared in In Posse Review and Paumanok Review. Further poetry will be anthologised in a print publication The Pagan Muse later this year.

This piece was first published in INK POT #1 - 2003, a literary journal.

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	CHOPPING CHERRY LOGS Poetry by Andrew Nicoll Like the bursting of a bottle, the steel-split wood Sent the scent of summer on an airborne flood. The sweetshop smell of cherries wafted round my head, Like a memory of blossoms from a tree long-dead, And the winter darkened wood-shed with its winter piles of logs, And the winter piles of wood-chips that sheltered winter frogs, Were driven back by sunshine and lying under trees, A womanąs fond embraces and the murmuring of bees. The split wood lay there whitely and I raised it to my nose, But the summer scent was fading and -- the way old loving goes - It stole out to the garden and disappeared at last, The cold and darkness took it, the present took the past. A memory of a memory was all that stayed behind, And the harder that I looked for it, the less there was to find. But it came again that evening when the fire had burned to grey, And I closed the door behind me and went out on my way, Like the echo of an honest word or a brave thing or a hope, The smell of cherries filled the street, carried on the smoke. § § § Andrew Nicoll is 41, married with three children and lives in a tall Victorian house by the beach on the east coast of Scotland. His first published poem appeared in Lit Pot last year. Short stories have appeared in In Posse Review and Paumanok Review. Further poetry will be anthologised in a print publication The Pagan Muse later this year. This piece was first published in INK POT #1 - 2003, a literary journal. GO TO NEXT PAGE