The Falls Of Athabasca

Re-reading your lines,
I’m teasing out new meanings
Which were not mine to find,

Like a novice tasseographist,
The leaves I thought were soaked
In languages like mine,

Or a youthful panner
Trekking northwards from
The Falls of Athabasca,

The lucid water, freezing cold,
Brings precious stones to surface,
Misunderstood, inevitably, for gold.

The planets in their place
Do hold, and I am grateful
For evening breezes are sublime,

But I would trade that race
To heavens of a simpler taste,
To read again our love in rhyme.