Poems by Tom Pow


In the village, they think of those
who have taken to the road 
				On the road 
they think of the next village


There are those on the road who never think
of the village
	There are those in the village
who have made their lives an open road


When the road turns to water,
	you must grow fins


There are countless dead villages
	but no dead roads



You don't gather flowers 
	on the open road
	for the open road


	     You gather stories on the open road
for such times 
	as you have need of a bouquet

or to tell to yourself when darkness falls
and the faces 
	of all the flowers turn black


Each night, its kindness 
	made the village glow

Wolves patrolled its roads,
	letting no one 
	either in or out


If I were to meet my dead father
I would choose to do so in spring

not within the confines of the village,
but casually on the open road

preferably in the early evening


I live in one village
	but I dream of another

I walk down the road
	the sun hot on my back

the books, an unmapped 
	road in my satchel


She knew the roads
	between villages
the paths through the forest
and a few more that once
	skirted the fields

She lifted her head
	to the blue steppe of the sky -
to the birds, above, 
	busy with nesting


There were three roads 
	out of the village -
two led into the world; 
	the other to the sky

Now each of these roads 
	has been taken,
the village spins 
	uselessly in the wind


Sunlight through leaves,
	stippling bands 
across a road
	just before it curves

It's possible to love
	when love
is a fixed point,
	going nowhere


Between the village and the road -
a moon of golden broth
shining in the darkness,
a pinch of earth for remembrance