A second poem from Canada. This is from our second day of travel, when we spent time in Winnipeg and caught the Greyhound Coach.
The Wide Country Horizon
The wide country horizon,
Water colour trees and lake,
Roads laid to gridded paper,
And Arnold’s Dauphinite mind.
Manitoba, you are kind;
Smiles, Motor Inn to Greyhound.
Hot cakes and syrup and sleep,
Gopher Park – Assiniboine.
UK’s copied your dinked coin,
And it spends well, slots and plates
Across Winnipeg, till time
Taps a shoulder and we go.
Thanks, Twinbearer for your show
Of conversation to us,
Strangers by the bus who sought
The wide country horizon.
As you who follow this blog you know I’ve been away in Canada these past six weeks. It’s been quite the adventure, and I learnt a lot about where I was, what we did, and the usual discovering yourself thing (only by keeping a journal and reflecting – nothing farfetched). I did keep my writing up during this time though mainly focused on a journal (as mentioned) and planning my first “novel?”.
To keep things short and sweet, I’m back and here is a poem I wrote on the flight over. There’s more to come in the weeks ahead.
It’s good to be back!
Artitus and I, To Canada
Our mum’d be proud of mash-clouds
Hung on mobiles tied to blue,
Which shade the ships and each mound
Of land ‘neath our spreading view.
Artitus takes up the pen
Records journeys out of home
And she makes her notes of when.
Our mum’d be proud of her two
Taking off across the sea,
Knowing fears affect on you –
Ne’er mind what it does to me!
Artitus jots down her hues;
On adventure now begun
Above mountains she’ll now use
To fuel her creative sun.
Our mum’d be proud to show
To the thousandth passerby,
“Look at Artitus’ bliss,
Them holding hands, makes me cry!”
Been a journey all to here:
Greenland, Calgary, land sore.
Now counting nears our first year
Pray we seek to take in more.
Please give feedback on any of my work, no matter what your thoughts. I’m a growing writer and must learn!
Began writing this back at the end of March, through April, and have finally come back to tie it up. Don’t believe I’ve posted it before, but it is a long time for me to hold on to one of these!
Set in tantrum, the boy’s toe (nail picked) face
Purples and blubbers in dark recessed mess.
Points of view – misaligned with his mother’s –
Expressably held to are uncovered.
Little one, wrenched expressions earn no work
From carrying hearts; and though pity’s uncorked
In simple glass, all call for you in fear:
“Come from the waters edge, my boy, my dear.”
Tut less at common birdsong, but listen,
Listen closer to what they’ve known and seen.
In pride there’s no learning, so be patient;
In patience we know our place, time, and length.
But the sun just risen has yet to light
Darkened hills, and – with roaming clouds in sight –
May wait some time before the boy can see
All you want to show him; put it simply.
Little one, never know man’s heart; it drowns
Disturbing the water around and owns
Unknowing suffering – it’s death down here.
“Come from the waters edge, my boy, my fear.”
Taken last week some morning I can’t recall which, but I think those are bluebells and whitebells (if someone knows otherwise please inform me!). Either way, the flower heads have often made me think of faerys/fairys, especially wearing them as hats.
Bells Of The Forest
Ringing through Spring morning tree-shade
In green grasses, beside the light,
The Blue and white bells, there they grow
– Content as hats for flitting fae.