Heritage

This is Canada, after all.
In the nation's capital where
among the crush of highways
commercial zones, office
towers and housing accommodate
a thriving city, its boundaries
also embrace forests and
wetlands, farms and rivers
passing through with green
parklands proudly sharing
space alongside hotels and
apartment buildings, stretching
to the near horizon, where
islands perched within waterways
whisper of indigenous mysteries
and legend speaking of logging
enterprises, the famed wilderness
exploits of the fearless and
hardy coureurs des bois, the
fur trade and Hudsons Bay
opening up the country's far
northern regions, from sea to sea
to sea, the northern boreal
forests to the western mountain
ranges, this land we love.

 

Atmospherics

The grey mists of early
morning fog cast their
twilight glow over the
subdued fall morning.
Dew lies heavily on foliage
and crystal globules perch
pendulous off every green
surface. Despite the gloom
Morning Glories open
blue petals as though
inviting the sun to free
itself from the clamp of
a sky pewter in hue with
landscape-drenching clouds.

 

Here And Now

Perhaps it can be regarded as 
a family affair. The family in
question comprised of a species
recognized for their efficient
industry, an admirable trait shared
by lesser creatures like bees and
ants, but it was beavers and the
historical relationship linking
them to Canada's foundation
that led to their selection
symbolic of Canada itself,
built on the industry of its
indigenous peoples and its
settlers, its vast forests and
pristine lakes, the minerals and
varied natural resources expressing
a plenitude of wealth and enterprise.
That symbol settles in pairs in
the wooded ravine nearby our home
one generation following another
damming the stream running
through the ravine, building their
lodge and feasting on the poplars
plentiful in the adjacent woods
reminding us that the past is
reflected right here, right now.

Shared Tenancy

Strangely enough, within the
borders of a modern city
which has stretched its
boundaries absorbing
farmland, wetlands and forest
it is little wonder that another
dimension beyond the glass
and concrete pillars, traffic
suffocation highways, the
rush of humanity concentrated
on the affairs of commerce and
advancing technology, there
also exists a serene landscape
of woodlands and lakes
rivers and valleys within
which thrive wildlife shy
of human presence, where
fox and deer, raccoons and
beaver, owls, hawks and
songbirds find haven for their
existence among us in the 
nature of our shared tenancy.

 

My Baby Brother

Only yesterday he was my
kid brother. Memory is tenderly
rife with versions of a teen-age
sister caring for an adorable
infant, my baby brother
who as a five-year-old obligingly
carried my marriage ring
to the chuppah. That all belongs
to another century, not one
but several earlier generations.
Now, as of this day, I am
bereft of my younger brother.
He remains, frozen in time,
in the past. Our brother-sister
role as of mother and child
is now a fable. No longer his
older old sister, he is gone,
departed, the story ended.

 

Shielding Me

From our earliest days together
he was always careful of me
gentle, kind and loving. My
welfare was his driver, his
concern for my well-being and
safety uppermost in his mind.
A mind and its concerns that
expanded each time we
produced another child. The
children long since independent
adults, I now remain the sole
focus. Unfortunately, I have
always been accident-prone.
Protective he may be, but
incapable of shielding me
from the consequences of 
being none other than myself.

 

Migration

All too soon the dense
dark green of the woods 
have been launched into the
twilight time of autumn.
Sunlight has become a
scarcity as chill nights
descend too swiftly for comfort.
Brisk winds detach foliage to
flutter on the forest floor
as old wild grape vines
hang their sour fruit
and ripe red globes of haws
dangle from Hawthorns. 
Above, the night sky hosts
geese on their southern journey
their sound a haunting memory
of icy chill on its way even as
goldfinches twitter their
brave nighttide migration
leaving northern climes
for a more forgiving climate,
abandoning us to winter.

 

Woodland Forays

Returning after so many years
the meadow is now ringed
with trees and the forest beyond
looks denser, darker than our
memory validates. Here the ripe
red haws of Hawthorns punctuate
the early autumn verdance, and
old grape vines loop over
dead conifer branches, their
sour, dark clusters food for birds.
American bittersweet twines
about the narrow trunks of birch
as we diverge and descend the
trail delving into the inner woods
the old gnarled trunk of the
venerable pine guarding the
passage even more contortedly
regal than last seen decades ago.
We recall every twist and turn of
that trail, complete with memory
of the little black dog who
accompanied us. There, over 
there, mounted on the slope above
is the recalled copse of cedars.
There, over there, is the dark
form of our little companion still
shadowing our woodland forays.

Seasons of Love

When we were self-aware
kids of fourteen, I viewed him
already as my very own.
Immediately on first introduction
I recognized him as the boy
who appeared in my dreams.
Much later, telling him that
he scoffed. His reaction on
meeting me was more prosaic,
perhaps more gender-driven
the appeal of a pretty girl to
a young boy. In the sixty-four
years that have since passed
that mutual reliance on our
childhood bond has been
understandably a primary
motivation for lifelong 
devotion smothered in love.

Pristine Glam Does It!

He called his friends over
for a grand tour, proudly preening
in a detailed patter of redefining
perfection in the alterations
undertaken in his home the
past few months, urging them to
explore the workmanship of all
the trades that had trooped through
with their expert functions and
tools, the high-end materials, the 
gleaming new appliances to set
off newly installed cupboards
the nicely inset lighting, the
natural oak flooring, the crown
mouldings and the panelling.
From the crystal chandeliers to 
the wide sweep of the newly
installed windows, his consummate
taste in the costly and the rare
signalled the measure of the man
glowing his satisfaction. Money
no object here. He has been busy,
his fastidious taste surrounding
him with the pampered luxury
of excess. The house is large and
well designed, transformed from
his castle to a palace of granite,
quartz and marble, the pool outside
glinting in the sun, sending sparks
of diamond-light through the
overlooking greenhouse. His search
for a woman to share his palace 
fatigued, there is now a cat
companion, unlikely to leave him
as his wife did, unwilling to cope
any longer when her Galahad
insisted on self as Svengali Lothario.

Trick and Treat

She is the eternal tease
manipulating trick or treat
with consummate ease
she who is mistress of
soil, sun, wind and rain.
Whatever surprises those
who garden and pride their
efforts, she is the guide 
and exemplar. Any devoted
to order and compliance
are novices, targets for her
esteem-puncturing excesses
in rampant infiltration of
weeds or rogue intruders.
Among my roses, peonies
and azaleas, grow tomatoes
melons and cornstalks,
their insouciant presence
anomalous and not by my
hand, but of hers. Unusual,
their presence there, but
yet a kindly gift nonetheless.

Love's Delirium

Once electrifying when we were
young and besotted in love
the sensation of touch
flesh upon flesh in gentle
loving strokes of passion have
become becalming and
treasured assurances. So long
familiar yet never the need
satiated. From the lingering
hand settling a collar, to the
smoothing of lotion on my back
to the grace of a kiss, a soft
nuzzle, an endless embrace, an
arms-circling sweep of the
graceful dance of everyday life.

In Dream-State

My mind is a strangely
unknown realm. It takes me 
to places old and familiar
that my mind shapes into
mysteriously frightening places.
In my dream state sometimes
it becomes difficult to
consciously separate dream
from the tremors of nightmares.
Night and slumber become
the time when those who had
an integral place in waking
lives come to visit, to remind
that though they are gone
from there they have not
in their new place of dim
light and endless wandering
without corporeal essence
forgotten us. These assurances
can be confusing, but they are
also somehow comforting.

 

Nursery Rhyme

They are as two blurs of
movement, a pair of 
synchronized shadows that
move when I do though 
they are not the shadows
that nature bestowed upon me
but rather shades of two very
small and very dark creatures
whose presence has invaded
my life. If I am in the garden
well then, so must they be.
Their soft, wet noses nuzzle
my hands, their tiny feet
pad after me, they discern
my direction and precede
me as I climb stairs, toddle
after as I enter the bathroom,
remind me when their
dinner is due, snuggle 
together in rest when I
make my way to bed at night.
I have become the challenge
of their hill and they
my Jack and Jill.

The Eerie Forest

There is a pervasive element of
mood, one of dark gloom in that
forest interior. Without, a clear sky
and the brilliance of a mid-afternoon
summer sky, but within as though
the silent brooding of an arcane menace
hovers nearby slipping from tree trunk
to tree trunk, observing the presence
of unaware but oddly perturbed
hikers whose visceral reaction
to the landscape of a strangely
primitive-appearing forest arrests
their notice briefly, exiting their
consciousness in a shrug. Underfoot,
the forest floor is damp and foetid, the
ambient atmosphere thick with the
drama of suspense, though nothing
untoward occurs. The presence of
huge old hulking maples and pines
scarred by time and the elements
hint at mysteries while the understory
of giant ferns reflects a primitive past.
Nothing stirs, no sound but the
breathing of a pair of hikers who have
lost their bearings, concerned and
exhausted, half convinced they have
ventured into the past. Grey clouds 
of mosquitoes rising from a swamp
surround them, enveloping them in
a fog of confusion. The forest is unmoved,
it had not, after all, invited their presence.

The Terrible Twins

We berate them for the maddening
mischief they do and in their
turn they face us, puzzled and
trusting eyes betraying uncertainty
anxious to be redeemed. They are
the Terrible Twins, sibling brother
and sister out-competing one another 
in the ferocity of their games
dashing madly about, seeming
to confer on the most possibly
irritating mischief to tackle,
sometimes eliciting hilarity at
their bold enterprise and just as 
often depleting our exhaustible 
store of patience. Their cleverly
intuitive interpretation of language
speaks to their precocity yet it is
a hugely selective talent, one set
aside with blase indifference when
their actions are dictated by the
irresistible desire to prowl and
appropriate what they know they
must not, in the pleasure they take
in destroying what is of value other
than for their entertainment. Their
sweet faces in abject remorse a
healing balm, they excel in the
peerless performance of artless 
joy and endless love, our two.

Survival

It is a simple yet telling
example of time's endless
circuit in coupling with
nature's divine purpose
to create and nurture
endure and thrive
decay and resurge, the
brilliant design of a
never-ending loop of
rebirth and survival
perpetually in motion.
Our small part in the drama
as simple as providing 
seeds and nuts to aid
local wildlife in winter-scarce
forage. The overlooked
redundancy of seeds spawna
spring sunflowers and fall corn
left to mature and blossom
ripen and produce, supplying
birds and furred beasts with
an ongoing measure of
security to survive.

 

Wet Woes

Poodles famously were bred
as water dogs to take advantage
of their clever and competitive
spirit, their adeptness at manipulating
their environment in aid of their
human companions' penchant for
hunting. Alas, infamously, we
failed to inform and imprint our
dainty little poodle pups at a time
when such information might have
advantaged their precocious 
understanding of such basic
expectations. Our penalty now
is to observe their particular distaste
of rain or any exposure that might
perchance cause them the discomfort
of tiny, wet paws, as we ourselves
must pause and consider how now
to persuade them on rain-filled
days that their fastidious dismay
is unbecoming to the species.

Elder Years

They shared certain traits
and values even as they passed
into their teen years becoming 
firm companions sharing space
and time and experience. Strangers
took them for brother and sister
but no such siblings should ever
regard one another as they did
even as she was forbidden to
see him by parental diktat.
Back then they were the very
picture of youth and discovery
introducing themselves to the
adult world around them, sharing
discoveries and disappointments
excitement and aspirations. Seldom 
apart, their appearance still 
resembling that of siblings 
as though their spirits once met,
 reached out to meld indivisibly
into a cohesive whole. No longer
after 65 years quite as vivacious
yet equally devoted, the years
trundle on and so does a world
transformed by global events,
taking them along on the journey
to the future long held as destiny.

Creation, Time and Space

An imposing cathedral of
unparalleled beauty sheathed in
crystalline grandeur lifts its
imperious grace to the ceiling
of the sky velvet with approaching
night, a halo of moon and the
boldness of stars impassively
observing a landscape unlike
their own of frozen gases and
ancient minerals. The one below
with its living atmosphere
responds to the distance of its
sponsor-sun in a frigid pause
of the clamour of growing
things unlike the inert nothingness
of cold and distant space. This
most familiar place of time and
seasons, liveliness and curiosity
a highly specialized experiment
by nature in randomized creative
adventure. And so, her creations
look up and peer beyond the
darkness of the unknown, certain
of discovery and revelation.

Grey Communion

There is much in common
between the two pairs, strangers
who could be as-yet-unmet friends
as they avow on meeting by a
chance walk in the woods in
opposite directions, their love
of a forest environment and
their devotion to their companion
dogs, the binding elements. Within
those two subjects there is much
to discuss, subjectively and oh,
so emotionally, and so they linger
and exchange the woes of the
departed ones along with the
pleasures of the current ones,
though one does not heal the
other. Finally, just before parting
a courteous exchange of names
followed by good wishes as the
four grey heads, two in each
direction, bob away from each
other picking their way carefully
over the gravelled, pine-needled
trail, one in each party turning
to the other to enquire: What were
their names again? --- their small
dogs simply happy to careen along.

Seasonal Decline

Late summer in the garden
presents a challenge to the
shrubs and perennials,
their bright enthusiasm spent,
their efforts flagging and even
the insouciant ever-blooming
annuals are languishing,
exhausted by summer's
expectations of a well-mannered
garden. Some have outlived
their contract with nature,
others in voluntary decline
and many, faded and wan,
insist they will bravely
forge on. Morning sun
catches the transparent blue
of Morning Glories, the
sun-bright gold and orange
flashes of nasturtiums featured
like flags unwilling to surrender
their freedom to bloom as
summer declines and fall's 
gradual decay sets the agenda
for winter's final assault on
the garden's courageous
denial on its way to
seasonal obliteration.

The Explanation

Well then, thank you for
your genuine concern and 
your expressions of sympathy
without which I tend to forget
how I must appear, my face
distorted and bruised, a
tolerable facsimile of that of an
abused woman. You do ill
to entertain even a fleeting
thought that my husband was
the author of this story, for
he is the last man on Earth to
even think violence, much less
express it. I feel fine now,
thank you, my tumble down
a flight of stairs purely the
result of careless misadventure.
Concluding with my temple
colliding unavoidably with
the hard surface of a tile floor.
Shocking, yes, painful certainly,
temporarily disfiguring of
course, but I am now beyond
all of that, but for the battered
presence I still portray along
with the obligation to explain.

 

Arcane Landscape

Once a vast inland sea, before
an age of ice scraped the landscape
the ancient moraine is now a
network of forest and swamp,
bog and dense meadow where
sometimes an atmosphere of deep
foreboding penetrates the minds
of those who venture there.
The atmosphere is dank and
dark, giant ferns luxuriantly
unfurled beneath a great canopy,
mist hanging in the near distance 
where sunlight penetrates, and
staffs of loosestrife, baneberry and
goldenrod rise around the edges
of peat-laden bog. In pockets
of swamp dispersed here and
there tiny waterlilies flourish,
the water rippled by frog spawn.
But no birds venture within 
the primal, mysterious place
resonant with its primeval aura.

 

In The Forest

The heat and humidity sizzles
with the unrelenting ferocity
of late summer in the city. In the
verdant haven of an urban forest
a still hush hangs on the atmosphere.
The saturated landscape's glowing
green interior hosts not so much
as a timid breeze stirring the 
limpid air. Shafts of sunlight
stab through gaps in the
shielding canopy where birds
flit about the sea of foliage.
A haze of bright moisture
curtains the distant view. Ferns
furl their presence on the forest
floor. White baneberry punctuates
the monopoly of green. Asters
and goldenrod flourish as an
understory below the massive
old maples, oaks and pines on 
this steamy late summer
afternoon in the urban forest.

 Photo Essay

The perfect companion is
one that knows how to 
recognize moods sensitive to
and empathetic with the
other's nuanced feelings,
emotions and values. That
companion views what you see
sympathetically, capable of
capturing a memory of a 
landscape, a moment in time,
a series of woodland discoveries
on a leisurely forest trail ramble,
sharing an authentic
aesthetic, gifting one with a
memorable prod to visual
harmony in an album of
prized and fondly held
photographs that only a
clever camera is capable of.

Urban Legend

It's a young, extended urban street, 
vintage a mere twenty-five years. 
But a lot happens in human life 
throughout such a time-span.
Those who moved into houses on
that raw street had ample time to
become acquainted and familiar
with the expanding brood of
infants whose maturation matched
the street's. Now, one original
owner after another has watched
as neighbours planted in their
gardens For Sale signs, discussing
between themselves how their
original investment's value has
soared. They became witness to the 
next generation of home owners
enlivening the street once again
with their emerging broods. The 
street now is host to greyed retirees
and young adults, generational
polarities in a revolving ever
evolving pantomime of life's
beginnings and its endings, the 
universe steadily unfolding as it will.

The Social Contract

He is a neighbour but not
very neighbourly. A man who
will go to obvious and unseemly
lengths to avoid eye contact
much less socially obligatory
friendly greetings acknowledging
recognition of others he has
lived among for decades, poses
as a puzzle to his neighbours.
Accustomed to the chirpy
cheerfulness of the man's wife
a woman who strains to be
noticed and whose smile is
wide and instant, her husband's
deliberate distance seems a
mystery. No friends ever called
on their two children from whom
he also appeared detached. And
now they're on their own, their
father, stringently introverted,
lives hermetically estranged, his
wife desperately grasping at
social interaction as of a sponge
deprived of its compulsion to
expand, severely gasping for
life-affirming social hydration.