A bridge of lilacs crosses the brook
that runs out of childhood,
as if childhood were a spring and not

a thirst. Cold water, fast water,
ache of that cold, remembering.

That quenching. An outdoor museum--
that's my childhood. Lilacs so thick
you can hear the bees from far away.

Thick with scent, thick with bees,
all drowned in the noise of the brook.

What did I mean, "a bridge of lilacs"?
That their branches touched each other
over the water? That their dark perfume

could take me back--take me
and never bring me back?

Ontario Review #47