The Old Road Tree

[John Galt]

The Old Road Tree

Those days buttered bread with moss,
a trick of the light telling me time

was a snail shell, not the leaking tap
dripping dry in the dark.

Elastic summers, where farmer’s hay
towered to warn us of broken ankles,

the winters where snow piled thicker
than my father’s spade, collapsed

with the old road tree in a missed storm.
The door to childhood flung

like a broken toy, leaving nothing
but the black and white space,

the fallen kite tangled at your feet.

Hello Stephanie. I think I got the gist of the first 4 lines, but the overall clarity of those lines did not gel for me; they were lost to abstraction in the way that they did not convey what it was the narrator was trying to impart. I can see "time" having "snail's" pace for instance but not "shell's" pace (if you get my meaning). The same goes for the "dripping" tap, does this donate that "time" is going fast?
if so I cannot see the connection easily.

Elastic summers, where farmer’s hay
towered to warn us of broken ankles,

"broken ankles" never came into it our thoughts when contemplating such things, and makes me wonder if any kid would consider such a thing.

The door to childhood flung
like a broken toy,

A door is "flung" open or closed, a "broken toy" would be "flung" away,
so I cannot quite grasp the true meaning of these lines.


I enjoyed the depth of snow being equated with your "father's spade".
I also like the summer hay "towering"

seeya. JG