"Bath at Marian's Pond" is about a day visiting a real friend, really called Marian. Tassel was our miniature poodle at the time -- we were urban dwellers then, escaping for a day in the country from Toronto's Annex. The "this year at Marian-bath" is, of course, a reference to that wonderful film Last Year at Marienbad . Yes, we were taking the cure. Now that we live in the country all the time, the cure stays with us. And Tassel, who was with us for a year here, rests forever under one of the birches while our young country dog, Laijka (and Zephy, Mady, and Bibi before her) romps through the long grass ignorant of the city sidewalks which Tass knew so intimately.
spring reeds ring the dark pond thin-lining wet edges in pen and ink none yet in summer rush but quiet, slow as an old dock picking our thoughts things still for pondering how red-spotted newts find water when it's time (Marian explaining their life-cycle) how trout-wise kingfishers roll their r's why bank swallows hole-up somewhere else overhead their high-pitched quibbling chatter straining at division of gnats, mayflies though heaven knows there're enough most of them fiddling around our heads behind us Tassel watches from the grass curious cotton curlings in the air settling in whispers on the water we guess it's poplar fuzz, seeds from their catkins too many poplars, says Marian they shoot up spindly quick, flop on their faces her hopes are set on the maple undergrowth fears on acid rain, already stunting the valley's pines oven birds in the far woods urgently call their teachers suddenly a splash of trout and Tassel leaps is stopped by the mud, the cattails loving it slurping their long roots in the stuff they laugh at a marooned dog, up to her bellyfur in slime oh God, Tassel, stay away from cats! haven't you been taught? four ink-black legs, not over here, shoo! oh you silly little city-dog, don't swallow the stuff! tarbaby, as if you'd rolled in it one pitch-dipped tassel, soon to be catkin-feathered how to get it off? why don't my teachers bath me? ponders Tass but no dogbath, hose, pawtowel here a bucket of water and dishsoap though (this year at Marian-bath, or was it Ischl?) the cure is grey suds, thick as facial clay we try washing them down, the slime remains so pitch her back-half into the pail, then front-half fish her out like a muddy trout, half her fluffed-size the clay thins to light gray foam another bucket and she's cured to white but wet as an unsqueezed sponge, squishing soapily now run it off, Tass, run it off in the lilac air and she charges one of us to the other her black nosetip forging rhino through savanna then, twisting grasswards: pond-wise poodle rolls her curls, this way and that then dries them slowly in the sun, good pup is allowed to sit underfoot at dinner overhead, our thoughts slurping (must be loving it: soup of fiddleheads, Marian's fresh picked) later, as we leave, whip-poor-wills in the valley call cross to us: if you're ill... if you're ill... not knowing how to cure but thinking it wise nonetheless to warn back home in the great urban hole-up we burrow in, peel off each other's shirts the city falls from our skin, things still should we move to a country pond, little dog? (curled fuzz on the hearth) and after showers, laughter our quibbling chatter, straining at division of legs, arms Tassel jumps onto the bed, ponders from reedy edge not sure of our intentions, are we well? should she get buckets? more teachers? dear Tass, it's all right it will be all right only just now it's time still and we shoo her off
..........................................Copyright © Rod Anderson 1988