Synaesthesia Magazine Cities - Page 59

Guelph is a sepia toned song

that echoes.

the place where God was Christ

clinging to the cross

and bleeding in my eyes;

Guelph is summer in my heart,

singing sunlight,

ripple-aired train tracks,

oily, empty cars for eager eyes;

dark sewers for rubber-booted seeking.

It is sweat and shaking sadness;

fumbling, frightened young hands

held together for fearless, first time;

hands that crept in basement’s dark,

reaching desperate beneath shirts,

seeking softer, warmer places

for healing from the corrosive

while wood panel walls looked on

at a new sacrament uncovered,

too much power for this fragile flesh.

Guelph is lost in my heart;

left-behind loneliness

in favour of far-flung places

with less flavor than her siren streets;

she is holy Ithaca on far

that cannot be found again

unless like lost Ulysses

I cast my aged body upon the sea

to sail and survive pointless peril

and find her gone, gone, gone.

Guelph: A Paean of Lament