I

Professor Redlace pads along the path 
with the lilt of "Molly Malone" inside his head.
Alive, alive oh, Alive, alive oh, he sings low
to caterpillars feeding on leaves of Dutchman's Pipe.
It’s June, a hopeful month when grandsons visit
from across the Bay. He muses on the lack
of cockles here, no mussels, along the narrow footpath
that hugs the xeriscapic tilt. No sea life whatever,
on this drought-happy hill, save the occasional gulls
high overhead above the witness-oaks and evergreens
that comb the mountain's flanks. And faith, 'twas no wonder,
his inner voice warbles. So far from Dublin's fair city
and the Troubles in the north.

There are shiny patent-leather beetles 
that push and tug in dun-toned moss. 
White-breasted nuthatches skitter upside-down 
on trunks of wild filbert trees. He tips his hat 
to their insistent calls, and sees his grandsons' faces 
shining there, in grinning protea blossoms, 
pink and bulbous; boys still young enough 
to know the joy of many things, and not yet 
have to grasp the darker side. At that, 
he tucks his chin and makes resolve to paint 
their portraits, abstract, as a secret he can savor 
while he works his winding hillside garden. 

He'll show the wife, once it is done; 
would she not be pleased! Alive, alive oh! 
And he'll start to teach the boys about the world's 
less savory aspects, gradually dissolving bits 
of youth’s vague blinkers, let his lifetime's 
experience leak a little wisdom at their tender feet. 

				II

All around the mountain flank, the conifers stand still, 
listening to gossip of the flittering breeze. Right now, 
across the oceans, the air is shattered by bombs 
and tankfire and missiles, men making war 
in dusty cities at other mountains’ feet,  
brother tearing brother into shreds.

Where ancient gods are summoned up to witness 
every evil act a man might do. Perhaps 
the spruces and the cedars, rough-bark pines 
and Douglas fir, the looming live oaks  
that share his footholds on the incline, might send news 
from root web to root web, around the world. 
The great mycelium of the planet could be humming  
with compassion, tasting the sad strange tones 
of words, that only human beings use, such as 
murder     rape     betrayal     bloody hearts