Meet me at Farlinger Ravine,
Ravine west of Kennedy Road by the Dollarama,
Dollarama that conceals the lost banks of Taylor Massey Creek,
Creek that is witnessed from this rusty bridge.
This bridge where I loll at the rail and examine,
examine the sticky burrs on my mittens,
mittens that spell “Love” on my knuckles,
knuckles that soften with warmth as the sun rises,
rises to lavish its image on the stream.
Stream of Farlinger where youths from the shelter,
they shelter under maples, entwine limbs on fallen logs,
logs that block the narrow path to the culvert.
This culvert that thunders in storms, eases the stink of sewage,
sewage that swirls over submerged shopping carts,
carts from Giant Tiger, condoms, and Tim Hortons cups,
cups whose rims did not win.
Win next spring, maybe, but today ice curls at the edges of flow,
flow of water that plays with the sun’s colours,
colours of frozen glass in red, purple, and silver,
silver that polishes the depths of Farlinger Ravine.