Sanctuary 

Scooter pauses to enjoy the vista on the St. Francis River

Winter lingers
    cold and bitter
       in New Brunswick woods.
Boughs of black spruce
    yearn to shed their 
       mantle gleaming white.
Pool and pond, 
    stream and lake lie 
       in snow-laden slumber,
waiting for the 
    springtime freshet 
       to lift the smothering ice.

My boat awaits,
    impatiently, 
       swathed in vinyl tarp.
Paddles stand 
    until my hand wraps 
       fingers round the shaft
to venture forth 
    when purple violets 
       spread along the meadow
and fiddlehead ferns 
    sprout profusely 
       under dog-eared alder.
When all is young 
    yet again, when 
       I am spry once more
Eager to stand 
    at water's edge 
       in the quiet hollow
and enjoy the 
    peace and tranquillity 
       of the lonely forest
Sharing tales, 
    ranting and laughing 
       with my good friend Biff.

We'll talk of those who
    shared our trails in
       springs and summers past
gone down the road to
    seek their fortune 
       in the concrete canyons.
I've been there too, but
    could not shake the
       longing for the east
when the dusty wind 
    blew the papers 
       up from the gutter 
       onto the sidewalk 
       at my feet.





Hal on the Bonaventure River, Québec

Miramichi, 
    Upsalquitch, 
       Nepisiguit and Oromocto
had woven their spells on
    my soul and would not
       let me forget them.
They whispered to me 
    in the lonely night 
       with the hush of wavelets 
       hurrying to a far shore
as I huddled in 
    dark catacombs of concrete 
       sixteen floors above a
       nameless Calgary street.

Why did you leave us? 
    We run cold and alone, 
       waiting for the 
       stroke of your paddle
and the glow of
    your campfire on
       moon and starlit nights.
Our names were given
    to us long ago by
       Micmacs and Maliseet, 
but they mean nothing 
    until you speak them 
       softly on our shores.

 I forsook the naked prairie
    to chance again my future 
       in your rock gardens
and gaze down into 
    dark pools where salmon 
       hover in shadowed ranks.
On a cool Tobique night, 
    the full moon hangs suspended 
       between ragged band of clouds 
       and jagged treeline
against a shifting backdrop 
    of a sea of stars
       casting pale radiance 
       on limpid waters below 
       and frayed edges of
       clouds above.

and I thank the 
     random fates who 
       saw fit to birth me here 
in this forgotten 
     northeastern sanctuary 
where I express myself 
     as an element of 
       the woods and waters
and find fulfillment while 
     being borne upon a 
       thin ribbon winding 
       between walls of tree and rock
whole confirmed and complete once more.

 Nanook of the Nashwaak 
 Reach out and touch a rock 

Sylvan Tryst

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