Al Purdy was an uncommon poet
Of my times, who shared my sky,
A dead poet who would frequently
Wonder where words came from.
His mirror is lying , gathering dust
In dusty attic of unknown archives.
A repair man atop the church spire
Holds out threat of imminent fall.
Purdy would find death yodeling
Everywhere including church top
And three birds would disappear
Into the archives of unknown sky.
Something seems about to happen.
The leaves fall and the sky is quiet.
Man is hammering away at the sky.
Perhaps he will not fall ,Mr.Purdy.
Remembering the great Canadian poet Al Purdy (1918-2000)