From the title poem about giving up the beloved home where a son had taken his own life, to poems about her own childhood and interconnectedness to the ever-lengthening branches of the family tree, to poems about the larger upheavals of the world, Button articulates a vision of life where the darkest grief has a place alongside the most profound joy. Heron Cliff is a passionate work of consummate skill.

Blue Dahlias

A hoe, a spade, a rake – what more do I need?
Gardening is an instrument of grace.

Ordinary delights grow here – barren wort,
bugbane, fountain grass, meadow rue.

And maybe, one day, blue dahlias –
something rare, unheard of.

Why build a fancy house when you desire a cottage?
Travel doesn't satisfy craving. Craving for what?

Dervishes whirl around their hearts,
burn like a torch. This too is prayer.

 

Gardener Teapots

Sept. 12, 2001

This morning the sun rises alizarin crimson
juice pressed from the madder root.
I take my favourite porcelain mug
stencilled with an English country garden
and while the water boils,
add a pinch of Russian Caravan
to the tiny pot with the cracked lid.

Gardener teapots
red,yellow, blue bone
china made in Russia
under Peter the Great
were lugged by camel caravans
over the Silk Road to Pakistan.

Waiting for the tea to steep, I hear
the Great Blue Heron's kraak
as it lumbers into flight

birds in the air, fish in the sea,
and the world did not end yesterday in New York.

When the pots broke,
menders salvaged the jagged bits,
bound them with the copper lugs
and sealed the cracks with tar
so they could again brew tea.

 

No Trade-Ins Allowed

I bought, you bought a:

Tsimshian mask of a human
transforming into an eagle

The winter we accused our son of
using drugs, he reproached us
for having possessions

Thai Buddha with mother-of-pearl eyes

He shaved his head and in monk's dress
meditated among the wild rhododendrons

Oxford red leather Bible that
lacked ingredients tasty for worms

Euphoric, he communed with God, blamed us
for not sending him to church as a child

Wool rug from Beijing
ancient coins woven dead centre

He sold his gold chain and the ring
engraved with his Chinese name
but that didn't drive away his demons

Gilt carving of soldiers on horseback
from a home ransacked by Red Guards

One night in a back alley, he wrestled
his father to the ground, stole his wallet

Balinese kris, its bloody history
embodied in the blade

He ripped off the hilt and pawned
an ebony lion with ruby eyes

Floppy clown dressed in red hearts
from close to home

After he was diagnosed we tried
to make a deal with God

 

Sky-Calling

for Ron

The albatross has a wingspan twice as wide as you are tall
and hollow bones so light

she barely moves her wings in flight, those long thin wings
hinges to fold like an origami bird

though she stumbles on earth with big webbed feet –
a gooney in floppy shoes.

Every winter she circumnavigates Antarctica, buffeted by icy currents
and Katabatic winds,

lands on the ocean to feed and rest – though how she sleeps
in avalanches of water

is a mystery to me. Once a year she returns to breed
on the Tairoa cliffs,

flapping her wings in a hullabaloo, craning her neck to the sky
and screeching for her mate

until he comes and sits by her side, as if to say,
I need you. I'll always need you.