today in Toronto it is cold, dark and windy, but luckily I found in the pages of Raymond Souster’s poetry a sun-dappled glimpse from a summer four decades old…
there it lay on the page, just waiting to be read, to be seen and felt…
nothing beautiful ever happens
Just think of this —
Bobby Hackett coming suddenly
out of Whaley, Royce on Yonge Street,
holding in his hand a gleaming trumpet
which catching the late rays
of the afternoon sun makes jewels,
crown jewels flashing in my mind long after
he’s waved for a taxi, driven south
into the soft auto haze….
— Raymond Souster, The Years, 1971
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