We Walk The Ancient Ground

Gulls swoop over blue water
shrilling at the cresting
rapids in the Ottawa River
and we stand before 
the memorial
the rusted figure 
of Father Brebeuf
crucifix in one hand
paddle resting on a canoe
in the other.
                   We travel an
Indian walkway, that place
where centuries past
portaging traders, missionaries
were brought by their guides
to skirt the rapids.
                    We walk
the ancient ground, the
granite of the Canadian shield
where sumacs, elms and
spindly poplar replace the
forest giants that once
furred this land.
                      Here,
sinkholes in the granite
and there, water laps
stone steps that Brule
and Champlain once climbed.

Across the river, Ottawa's bulks
and Gothic traceries of the
Parliament Buildings, but here,
eyes downcast and breathing creosote,
we follow the adventurers.

Blackbirds jaw their call
swallows arabesque the river
and bush grows close to the path
to shut off the present; the
rapids rush, playing us
the song their paddles heard.