Morning Fog

Morning rolled into the marine
landscape, in a dusky
opaque grey of fog droplets
obscuring near and distant
sightlines convincingly presenting 
as the dusk of day's end
not the introduction to
another day. Birds accustomed
to nature's pranks soared
high and simply awaited
the outcome experience has
long taught them would
resolve the fog's presence
the sun dominating the sky 
would ultimately prevail
sending bright diamond shards
of light to blink serenely over the
turbulent surface of the ocean.
 

Deathly Blue

As mushrooms go, in their 
infinite disguises, this one is
ghastly. Not the bright, cheerful
burnt umbra resembling orange peel
or white ruffles, or miniature ranks
of stalagmites or those charming 
golden toadstools, but the pallid
sickly blue of a corpse. Fungi
are fascinating organisms given
to suddenly appearing where nothing
had been, to the nakedly observant
eye, but on the forest floor, under
the damp mass of desiccated
foliage, a thriving network of
filaments born of spores link to
fibrous, woody decay, a platform
for new life constantly emerging.
In the breakdown of cellulose; old
tree limbs and trunks, fallen and
buried in the rich loamy humus
of the forest, fungi transform death
back to life. Heed this: long-dead
corpses of forest animals also feed
fungal growth. From death emerges
life in fungal form of deathly blue.

Night's Entry

The forest floor has been darkly
varnished by the thunderstorms
that swept violently through the
area yesterday, trees still dripping
the ravined creek running thick with
muck, a faint aura of marsh gases
rising with the mist. The onset of
early fall and the surly overcast
of the sky above the masts of old
conifers has ushered in twilight
translated to gloom within the
forest, as the waning day invites
night to follow, and birds can be
heard softly murmuring their
reassuring twitters as they settle
into dark branches for the night
hours. Finally, as dusk makes way
for darkness, an errant wind
rustles the yellowing foliage of
a smooth-trunked poplar and a hail 
of leaves detach to lazily swirl to the
invitation of the waiting earth.


 

Time's Up

The avian migration has begun; 
at night the sound of the warblers 
 calling softly to one another
presumably helpfully guiding 
each other and maintaining the 
night comfort of a group, while 
during the daytime, it's the 
honking call of Canada geese
lead navigator sternly reminding 
those who fail to pack into their 
tight, elongated arrow due south 
that if they stray, they're on their 
own. The lunatic call of the 
Pileated woodpeckers are now 
heard more frequently
and bluejays scarce through
the summer months have 
 temporarily returned to the woods
with their unmistakable high-pitched 
call reminding that birds respond
to the same imperative of survival
that we do, preparing ourselves
in the grim mentality that fears
winter's onset, as we mourn
the passing of carefree summer
days of warmth and pleasure
in leisure and admiration of all
growing garden features when
birds splash purposefully in the
baths set out for their pleasure
and ours in observing them in
the days now steadily slipping 
away, late dawns and early dusk
the order of the day as fall
invites winter to take its interim
place in the seasonal panoply.

 

Cooking for Two

Tea for Two is a romantic trope
initiating a relationship without a hint
of commitment, a high-spirited, dignified
meeting of minds busy elsewhere. But 
cooking for two is another simmering pot
altogether, requiring planning and pleasure
on occasion leading to two in the
kitchen, but more generally related
to one cooking to tease the taste buds
of the other, hoping the results will at
least for the moment set aside fond
memory of a mother's dedication to her
son's devotion to his gustatory intake.
For me, my love, cooking for two has
always really been cooking for one. 
It has been for me a long, challenging
journey from my teen years to these
of senior vintage, to tease your sense
of smell with the fragrance of dishes
bringing together in harmony, whole
foods and herbs, flavours in baking
irresistible to your gourmand sensitivities
and I take deep satisfaction in knowing
my focus and efforts have long been
appreciated. Know then, that this journey
in tickling your palate has given to me
a goal to pursue whose wholesome
achievement has never palled, bringing
pleasure to you and contentment to me.

Evolution

Evolution

A delicate creature she was
bones like a bird
little beak of a nose
voice trilling her welcomes.
If bird she was, a cardinal.
Flaming plumage she had,
her burnished fly-away hair
trailing her exquisite face.

Her body small and neat,
in its way sturdy enough
to take her to motherhood.
She’d also two dogs large
as she was not; golden retrievers
whose haircoats echoed hers.
Her constant companions
roaming through woodlands.

These creatures revolving about
her as though in an orbit
about their nurturing star.

Gone now, her companions
even as her children have
fled the coop she devised for them.
The children entering their futures,
the animals overtaken by their
finite life spans into oblivion.

While her future lies yet
yawning before her. She has become
as the sun, an orb of substantial
proportions, her hair still
flinging bright rays into the
atmosphere. Her petite features,
half hidden now beneath her
evolved gaseous rotundity. 

Courtesy Extended

Courtesy Extended

Courtesy is no small thing
allowing us to bypass
unintended, even intended
slights of minor proportions.

It extends to others;
companions and intimates
neighbours and strangers
a glimpse of our very own
timidly hopeful humanity.

Bringing to ourselves
as well as to others the
ease and comfort of
kindly regard, a civil moment
in a tumultuous life.

Far finer the white flag
of humility than tendentious
suspicion, taking umbrage
where none was intended.
The result: peace, harmony.

The Eminent Sir John

HMS Erebus: johnhorton.ca

The Eminent Sir John

What a formidable reputation he has
attained for a man who failed to
accomplish what he set out to do; find
the Northwest Passage to the Sea. How
amazed he and Lady Franklin would be
to know how the world has long been
invested in searching for that old sea dog
his crew and the Erebus and the Terror.
How insistent he had been that he
deserved recognition for his long naval
career in Her Majesty's fleet, unwilling
to venture any further into obscurity
and old age without another commission
that would seal his reputation in glory
forever. In that sense, his aspiration has
been achieved. It would remain for the
future and environmental change beyond
the power of any human to open that 
famed passage to the sea that intrigued and
eluded his intention and his efforts, whom
the Inuit recalled through verbal legend
to illuminate his desperate plight and
that of his men. In death, glory no longer
eludes and the timely discovery of the
ships shoaled and sunk in the Arctic
discovered in Victoria Strait a century
and a half after that voyage of despair
seals forever his place in the annals of
seafaring enterprise in an era of discovery.


 

The Reluctant Roofer

No problem getting employment. It's 
experience that is valued and he
has had plenty of experience, he
booms in his Cockney accent, our
rough-hewn friend, his rock-hard
facial features in an excitement of
inspiration. Experience in scrambling
on rooftops, freezing in winter when
people want the acres of snow 
shovelled for fear of the roof caving;
broiling in summer when he's
exposed and elevated to the rays of
the blasted sun. Experiences? The
odd fall, even for one so experienced.
There's been no cure yet for stupidity
in choosing a living, nor for the
habit of a human body to age and
clumsiness to set in, experienced or
not. So, the kids growing older, out
of school now, time for the Old Man
to find something he wants, for himself
that's a change, wot? His mutual love
affair with dogs inspired him to a new
career as the neighbourhood dog
walker, a man whom dogs love and
who loves them right back in spades.

Farewell, Cannelle

Have some compassion, emote
your genuine empathy, for
you've been there yourself
that place of confusion and loss
just as your neighbour, newly
exposed, is experiencing those
emotions. Their diminished
household is now in grieving mode.
Their last dependent is gone, she
of the golden locks and brassy
attitude, intimidation her second
nature, so groomers refused
their services, nervous about her
unmistakable signals of hostile
'hands-off'. Nor were her snarling
threats to other companion-pets
to be taken lightly. Still, she was
your amiable friend and you too
ache for her, grown old and
deprived of her faculties, temper
turned gentle, her haircoat still
her crowning glory, her life a
tempest in a teapot, yet well
pampered, and oh, so well
loved. Forever stilled, farewell.

 

Taking Charge

All the unmistakable markers 
present and accounted for, a nice
big bandaid plastered on his shin,
hair thickly dishevelled and an
impish grin on his face, the
second-grader accompanying his
grizzled white-haired grandpa on
their trek through the woods was
more than amenable to ensuring
that the old man would be in safe
company, as the child held the man's
hand guiding him carefully over the
terrain he knows as well as the
back of his mind, newly introducing
the little boy to a world that nature
still occupies, thick with trees
and underbrush and narrow trails
used by both animals in the wild
and adventurous nature-trekkers.
Grandpa allowed himself to be
protected by his patronizing charge
congratulating him on his woodlore
preventing grandpa from stumbling
on restive tree roots that he knew
from brief experience would move
into the way of booted footsteps
with the intention of tripping the
unwary, and he had no intention of
allowing his grandpa to be unwary.

Staccato Statement

In the distance, the piercing shriek
of a Pileated woodpecker declares
its imperative to avail of the
plenitude of bark-burrowing and
-infested pestilence within its
undisputed territory of the inner
forest. Large and primitive in
appearance, its daunting bony
cranium sends large splinters
of a majestic, towering pine into a
cellulose shower, gaping raw wounds
left on the grand old trunk testament
to the great bird's function to
maintain nature's balance in the
wild blueprint of her creatures' --
flora and fauna -- survival capacity
as each pursues their defined destiny
relentlessly preying on one another.

Yes, It's Raining

Yes, the forest is utterly drenched.
All-night rain has that result.
Besides, it has been raining steadily
since; some unknowable force up
there keeps tipping over the 
brimming cauldron to restore normalcy
to a summer deep in drought. Yes,
it is still raining and the deep
penetration has roiled the forest floor
inundating the cellulose mass of
generations' accumulation, and
the earthly-wet odour rises to
infiltrate sensibilities as we tramp
along woodland trails, admiring
of the heavy mist veiling the
valleys where the freshly invigorated
creek of the forest's ravined geology
runs wide, deep and muddy
inviting parched insects and aquatic
life to enjoy the swirl. Drenched
birds huddle silently, sheltering
on dense-leafed branches. Spread
over the forest floor, clumps of
variegated fungi have magically
surfaced. Yes, it's still raining
but look, it's no more than a drizzle
now, and the still-green canopy 
of early fall, though soggy, offers
shelter, so enjoy your tryst with
nature, where rain's twilight so
wonderfully alters the deep and
dense verdure of the forest.

 

The Bluejay's Call

An early afternoon twilight
reaches into the forest as the
radiant jewel of the sky shields
itself from view transforming 
this day of heat and sunglare
to an early fall rain event;
the surface of the forest stream
no longer still, but riddled by
pinging watery irruptions in its
leisurely journey downstream.
The sharp, earthy fragrance of the
dampened forest floor, still sizzling
where shafts of sunlight penetrated
the green canopy, begin to shift
from powder-dry to slick mud.
The bright pink of fall asters
in nudging companionship with
goldenrod becoming rain-glistened
decorate the forest pathways
and from the heart of the forest
clear as a bell rings forth the
shrilly assertive cry of a bluejay.

 How Strange It Is

Finally, I must admit to myself 
that I have too long harboured 
a fanciful fallacy that must be 
surrendered to reality. For the
simple fact seems to be that no
one shares residence on this 
street of lovely homes, with me.
Clearly, there must exist a parallel
world not my own, where people
potter in their gardens, hail
neighbours as they stroll by
remark on how quickly their
children are growing out of infancy
and older children walk home
from school. On my street there
is a complete absence of people
though cars appear to live at
these addresses, now and again
driving off independent of driver
to some unknown destination
returning when the mission has
been accomplished, and all is
still again, serenity reigning.

 

Exile From Nature

Yes it's true that humankind's
cerebral attributes and ability
to manipulate the environment is
exceptionally creative for in our
prodigious efforts we have succeeded
in reaping the fruits of the earth
taking for ourselves the edible
wealth that grows on the land and
the minerals that reside beyond the 
planet's molten core to provide for
ourselves a total environment unlike
any other that the lesser creatures of
nature's design might conceive
let alone manage the stewardship
of, as have we. We have reached
the pinnacle of attainment, isolating
ourselves from nature and her
creatures identifying ourselves as
superior, the sole Earthly denizens
that levitate from the confines of
buildings to the interiors of vehicles
never deigning to explore the
pleasures of life within nature's
own boundaries. We live in houses
remote from the caverns that once
harboured early mankind, take flight
across the world at leisure, place
other creatures in collective cells
so that we may take pleasure in
observing them without interacting,
the streets we live upon utterly
absent of human presence, the
highways dividing our cities
crammed with vehicles rushing to
arrive at some destination while
creating havoc to the wildlife and 
this is our exemplary existence.


 

Human Relations

Is it conceivable that those innocents
might ever have imagined even in
the most hideous of frightening
nightmares that their family home
would be transformed into a
butchery by one of their very own?
One remaining sibling whom fate
spared when he ran in terror from
his brother might shed light on
the general conjecture of the horror
that unfolded when the youngest of
four garroted their mother, shot
a bolt from a cross-bow into the
neck of one of his older brothers
and jammed another into yet another
brother's throat; the survivor saved
his own life by fleeing the grotesque
scene of familicide. Leaving friends
and neighbours to shudder in stark
disbelief and police to take official
charge of the slaughterhouse a family
home had become and the offerings
of those who knew the killer, now in
custody in stunned statements that
his impending marriage and fiance
are now a shattered dream of normalcy
the compulsion to destroy and kill
the actions of a demented stranger
not the well-adjusted man they know
and whose temperament had been
somehow overtaken by a demon.

Growing Up

Growing Up

There's that emotional conflict
when a grandmother is confronted
with her grandchild's inexorable
loss of childhood. The infant she
helped raise is now indisputably
growing into adulthood. One
knows that to be so, for she has
announced that when she visits
she would like her hair professionally
cut and styled, and a visit to La Senza
is also in the works for bras to
be properly fitted to her size.
But the child is not yet gone.

For, she asks, please, to have her baby
blankie, please, please, mended. And
when it is recommended she mend it
herself she says she cannot, and this
time she would be pleased to thread
the needle, grandma, so ... please?
After it's washed, then, growls the
grandmother to the child's undisguised
horror, for washing the threadbare
memento of childhood would most
certainly cause total, irrevocable
disintegration. Grandma, please!

 

Humble, Sublime

The formula is all there just
as nature's meticulous design
was meant to painstakingly put
in place the impetus and the
ingredients coming together to
produce the result. Her initial
primal experimentation salved
her impetuous curiosity once
she had undoubtedly surprised
even herself when she began all
those chemical trials watching in
fascination as the atoms and sub
atoms gathered, dispersed, then
re-gathered with the most
astonishing of consequences as
the universe was born of a
cataclysmic detonation whose
magnitude was beyond even her
experimental imagination and
skill to portend. But she persevered
and when the temperamental gases
subsided, she poked about in the
detritus bringing order to the chaos
she had created. With great care
and meticulous attention to
detail we now view in absorbed
fascination the results of her
creations, amazing, every one.

!Fall? ?Already!

It is, of course, inevitable that 
the moment we begin to turn the corner
from one season to another, a surge of
discontent seems to electrify the
atmosphere and unseen by human
eye subtle transformations take place
when signals suddenly noticed
bear tidings of departure and
arrival as though nature's
stewardship is one great assembly
requiring a director to point to the
correct gates of ingress and egress
to confused creatures. Take the 
forest, as an example, whose
residents, both flora and fauna
become faintly aware of waning
daylight hours and changing 
temperatures triggering the panic of
migration for those who do, and 
pantry-stuffing for those who must.
So much for the warm-blooded
creatures fearfully anticipating the
entrance of winter. What of vegetation
despairing at the faint tug of
collective memory heralding a long
sleep? Each to its season, with no
laggards tolerated; out with the
Black-eyed Susan, the Sunflowers
the Queen Anne's lace and the Mullein.
In with the Hawthorn haws, the
splendid red horns of the Staghorn 
sumac; make way for the Pussytoes
the Asters and the Jewelweed; allow
them their truncated season, the last to
flourish before fall is eclipsed and
Winter Solstice charges into view.