Elsa by Bob MacKenzie There is a rustle in your name, like the passing of the years; the sound of days falling like leaves around you, inevitably to leave a barren scarecrow in the wind without a rustle. There is already a look of scarecrow in your eyes, a certain hollow in your face and hunger in your mein that can only grow, like Chaos, inward upon itself. There is a beauty about you, but it is the derelict fantasy of a long vacant mansion or the prairie in November rather than that of youth in search of life. There is a rustle that follows you as you move, carrying autumn from room to room and filling every room with leaves until, one day, you shall have shed so much of yourself that none shall be left for the present. published: Generation '81, University of Windsor, 1981 |