My world turned upside down
(another Covid change)
a variant of normal
enlightening as it was strange

Borne of deep mid-winter
of yearning for alignment
a change of orientation
to balance and refinement

Another way of standing
a gradual conversion
to therapeutic posture
in the practice of inversion

Something quite appealing in the fleet-footed feeling when there’s really no place I can go. Just focus on my breathing, contemplate the ceiling, and wait for my hair to grow.

On daily Covid walks northern hills beckoned

January aspiration:
spying distant cliffs, desire borne of fascination

February determination:
charts, maps, local knowledge consultation

March disorientation:
wind, snow, directional miscalculation

Easter Sunday jubilation:
line of sight clear to St. Joseph Island, confirmation!

On the promontory there I planted my flag. Another conquest of lands previously unknown. Through binoculars I spied the long silver line of my walking route.

The descent, and the sign mounted by landowner: “Pike’s Peak this way.”

Winds blow hard across the long border. Doesn't budge, stays shut. Daughter’s on the move again, leaving one city for another.

The hummingbirds appeared after Mother's Day
feeder swings wildly from the maple branch
they have young
hanging on

pierce the wind like darts
appear as sparks
then vanish

Night frost
somewhere a tiny nest

Nature is about hanging on
waiting it out
ready to move
when change comes

She finds the will to clear obstacles, moving onward, sparks spiralling behind.

"hardest thing is, every day’s the same, nothing marks the passage of time ..."
(weddings, birthdays, trips ...)

only,

Little Dipper turning on Polaris
Return of the Hummingbird
Profusion of Iris
Day-night Cadence
Solar Eclipse

Repetition is peaceful as this confinement is freeing; an opening to the ways of change, to ways of knowing,

to time … the way in flows, in tides, winds, constellations ...

Love your flight,
humble crow
should love
to fly
with wind
wings rolling
tip to treetop
curling
flip fore
aft open
door to sky

Free from pretense, free to roll headlong into the unpredictable, the crow tumbles in a sudden, commanding move to find a way through winter skies; at once bold and understated, haphazard and elegant.

Wish I could roll in life’s gusts with such ease … wish I could fly as a crow.

Balsam-filtered sun
aspen-mantled
touches
layered forest floor
grounded stick
night gaze
fixed
shining spheres
shouldered
upon
forked maple
perched

Like feathers silent as a wing, a staff finds my hand for the crossing from known to unknown. I, on hands and knees lost in complexity while another intelligence looks down, puzzled.

At night in my ordered room I like awake in peace ... just knowing it is near.

The more I think, the less I feel
less I feel, harder I try
worse it goes, why oh why
is such a simple thing
prone to complication?

Stop chopping, start breathing,
free the mind to find
nerve and muscle aligned
in a swing of automation.

"Don't try to beat the skin off the ball," the old pro would say, holding a seven iron like a wizard's staff. "Okay, I'll try Dad." Eventually it would come, that effortless thing, that swing ... with its sweet sound of simple.

Anchor hanging over rocky bottom near jumping rock:
a good place for Smallmouth, I’d assured myself

I intently reeling
Partner calmly reading
four outings, not a nibble

Upland, the squirrel’s constant chatter

Fishing turns to philosophy:
questioning ways of man
puzzling at ways of nature

Then a strike, tentative, perhaps Lake Trout!

… I’ll never know

I pull anchor and drift, let go the images of me landing fish; the whole enterprise takes on new purpose. I perceive fish as wise, like pine rooting in the rocks, as indifferent to my pursuits as the chattering squirrel.

Another September I shall paddle back, eager to cast and reel.

A trail in the bush could take us anywhere
but not to the somewhere
we have in mind

today shall be for discovery;
of what we are not seeking

call it disappointment
or an extra eight kilometres
a hike to a lake we never knew existed
on the fork taken

Another day we shall take the fork not taken, the unlikely looking trail that turns south. We shall ascend Joy’s Peak and look to the west, knowing something of that land where the trail bends and rises mysteriously.

It was a good day to venture outside our expectations.

Sideways I flow
Beneath a high calling
A calm to know
Of forest and shore
Of towering trees
At order and disorder
I drift and wonder
In the mysterious depth
Of shallow water

What I love best in a kayak is exploring the shallows, getting lost in the space between reflection and lake bottom, to awareness on another scale. One autumn day I was taken to a show of forest colour tumbling into still water.

Relaxed and drifting … an invitation to another dimension.

a good time for planting
spruce and tamarak

then the fall, knee-first
and flashback to years before
“hurry up little brother!”

now the spring
I feel it from a depth like never before
I feel broken roots healing

Fall was the right time to plant.

My brother and I lifted the trees with ease. Then I fell. Later we planted them, believing in a promising future. I recalled his fall years before.

Bruised knees mend slowly. Growth and healing move together, though often imperceptibly … like fine roots in spring soil.

I know this slope, that dip, the group of red pine to the right
cones strewn on the snow, more than I remember
a sign of change, I know

This hill I remember, I was thirty-something, fast ascent
slower now? Will never know, but the zeal’s gone
I let it go, this I know

A kick and glide becomes a slip and a push
hard work, not really, I’ve known work, I’ve seen change
the track is softening, this I know

An afternoon on the trail, a return to movement known from childhood that releases a flurry of memories. Free from self-isolation I discover what I know within; what was and what is.

Change is everywhere.

“Take care of your hearing!”
His regret moved him to help others
“A triangle does not lie,”
He aligned ground truth with truth universal
“Its okay, I’ve slept on the floor before,”
He didn’t look down, or up, at anyone
“Everyone has a story,”
He looked for the heart behind fear, insecurity, sadness.

Always on a roll, one story then another. Made me laugh, cry, want to argue. His words rang like a hammer on a bell, landed as an axe splitting wood.

I want to care like he does, my friend in circumstance … care enough to find the story that’s always there.

From the cave of last breath
to the island of lasting rest
carried across parted sea
you are living history
Roi Mata! You are adored
your symbols of peace endure
with the sharing of Kava
and feasting on the boar

An old man is carried to his island across waters parted. Four centuries later the age of miracles turns to nature within. Peace reigns, a shell turns in current, a coconut rolls on waves.

I find my true nature … the war within may cease.

Ponchos running, puddles, mist
rolling down tea mountain
plantation trail descending
to temple lanterns
and dragon fountain

Little kettle, tea mother stirring
sings a family melody
of love and labour
in leaves unrolling
a calming remedy
for traveller’s worry.

Maokong mountain was subdued by rain and coronavirus. Yet there we found relief, dropped our wet packs on the floor, immersed ourselves in the wonder of tea.

For those who seek with pure hearts and open minds, the empty cup is always refilled.

At ten, I discovered the New World:

crayfish, clams, herons
and massive carp
cruising shallow water

I stalked, watched, discovered
a frontier of creek, pond and field

I lay in tall grass watching clouds pass and dreamed of places I would later name: Hudson Strait, Alona Bay, Little Abitibi.

Childhood is for wonder. Wonder feeds dreams. Dreams explore possibilities.

I find the overgrown path, retrace my steps, and rediscover the world.

A leaf falls:
fish feed
ripples dart
cycle starts

Anhinga in the shadow
lizard still as stone
mangrove, rock and water
light filters down

Deep current
distant tide
canopy contact
sulphrous air

Water flows beneath the Yucatan. Many pathways to the sea, many cycles of life at play.
I float in the cenote, turning like a leaf.

Qamutik broke, it’s easy to fix
on the land we keep rope
or seal hide

it’s our way on the ice
to hunt seal
our way home
to light the qulliq

frozen char is best, just melting
walrus we put under rocks
for six months
meat soft as cheese

our dogs live on the ice
ten years or more
they are the best

mine still keeps me warm

Snow on mountains, wind over rock, jumble of sea ice. The voice of the people, deep and vast as the land.

Puzzle pieces
tide and storm
horseshoe crab and clam

mangrove maze
dolphin play
a disappearing game

spoonbill, ibis, egret, stork
return to nightly roosting

while Darryl Daniels
through ten thousand islands
is rapidly homeward weaving

“How do you do this, Darryl, where’s your chart?”
“Chart? I’ve been on these waters for seventy years. I could do this at three in the morning!”

Gumbo-limbo, prickly pear, sandflies
everywhere
silent echoes
of mailboat, schoolhouse,
chickens and pigs
now the Daniels rest
upon this ground
three thousand years
of shell mound

Darryl pulled the boat ashore and we followed an overgrown trail. “I oughta come back to clean this place out. My parents, there they are with all that mother-in-law tongue!”

A colony of opportunistic plants takes the sixty acres of shells heaped by Calusa peoples … millennia before the mailboat.

Take a moment to feel,
an instant to know
a century,
deep and towering
stability
with sand and stone
a unity
water and sun
body and soul
earth and moon, one

Moonlit marble night glowing, air still and knowing, pulse of time bound in the heart of the pine. I fell upon its sweeping stem and leaned into the winter’s night … rooted in who I am and where I want to be.

Sign of southern summer
striding to autumn
across to northern winter
breaking to spring
hunting by night
and gathering
the will, the purpose
the hope unforgotten
his journey but a flight
to the other side of night.

At home among the gum trees, she breathes deeply and finds the three stars, shining as they did before there were navigators. The hunter always knew the way around the world.

He’ll carry her prayers over the horizon, as he always has … and always will.

A beach of stones
rolled and round
smooth as moments turning
silent movement water tones
deeply stirring
without a sound
but ice, the great time keeper
keeping stones
ice-bound

Stone beach polished to moonlit perfection. Would that I break but one free to keep my memory of this night. My hand enters water not yet frozen. The great lake graces me with two pieces of sculpted eternity.

Separately moved by one sentiment to a castle
of many towers, each with an ocean view
sharing the promise of the horizon
and wonders of the night sky
constellations to guide
wishes and dreams
around the world
across eternity
together.

Moved by inner touch, two souls join in shared moments: planting a rose garden, choosing a ring, gazing at the stars, crossing the Atlantic.

A castle of many towers; always building, forever seeking, an ocean of life expands before us.

A cobbled street through your gates
to barefoot path
reveals long awaited
thermal pool

I flow across time
breathe sky and earth
body and soul blend in volcanic water

Will you reveal more secrets
if I promise to return?

An escape to the garden of gardens, a creation of collections - cycads, camellia, and zoomorphic sculptures - where eternity flows from rock and runs down my back.

The promise of life from its very depths.

Caress of silence,
floating somewhere
turning time to driftwood
as clouds of raven and bear
soar through sulphurous air

Spirits borne of ancient earth
issue from cloven stone,
in power of mineral touch
healing to skin and bone.

I'll take to the last pool, floating in hot sulphur spring. From deep beneath the Continental Divide healing hands extend to cradle me in the bosom of the earth.

And I'll dream on passing clouds and fir trees bathing in the wind.

Three trees standing, dead
nearly ten years
give testimony to the beetle

Groups of dead everywhere
holding their place
keeping faith with the stand

The young, the living
draw water, release clouds of pollen
wait on the sun

The dead
who had their start
with axe and saw
rattle like bones in the wind
reflecting sunlight,
knowing something of change.

After years of beetle attack the forest is not what it was. Young pines fill openings, new brushstrokes in the family portrait.

Like ghosts in the background, the elders bear witnesses to forest change.

Born of tears
welling in arroyos
kisses awaken
desert rose

All that rained
upon Sierra de la Laguna
is taken by Pacific
all a-thunder

Then spring in October
dragonflies alight
on all that blooms
all in wonder

The desert, a place of miracles where rain pounds like a heartbeat and the sand bursts to life. Tropical storm Lidia forged links in the chain of love that encircles the massive Cardon, silent witness to the cycle of life.

Otter port-side
six, no seven
far from extinction
out at sea
in such fitting protection
coats like none others
for north Pacific swell
four hundred, no
four thousand feet
to dark water
silent
but for whales
sounding

Towering stone once ground under great tracks of ice receding, now softened by moss, ferns, mist rising, cedar and spruce touching the ocean.

And the ocean touches the wind … that I may sense the greatness of this place.

he charted a course for romance
the gates of the Pacific opened
its waves bid us come dance

he sailed upon open water
currents of music ran deep
Ella and Louis stopped by
for dancing cheek-to-cheek

from Ocean Lounge to the Rainbow Room
with each swing, sway, and swirl
he sailed the world’s great ballrooms,
soft shoe, satin and pearl.

Captain of the Ocean Trio, Larry knew how to bring couples to the floor. Each evening he’d watch as new friends gathered in conversation, affection, and admiration. Then at the right moment he’d turn a page ... and an old friend would come to play a song or two.

Tlingit tongue speaks respect
for Glacier Bay and ivory

for the kill when it is made
every part used, stomach, skin and teeth

A great jawbone defines the fjord
gives rise to stories
of the standing stone
and dragon fire

Overhead the raven calls
draws us to this place
that we might learn
what lies beneath

There is no word for goodbye in the Tlingit language. We shall meet again, as we shall touch the ice and know truths long held in carvings, song, and dance.

Five paces to coffee cup
hand light darts like moth wings
pulse of radar in hush of wingbeats
all a-shadow on night watch
alert for some fragile beacon
or sudden illumination
of cloud mountain

Night on the bridge: not a time for assumptions, nor a place for reflected light. The storm is silent and not so distant. Another look at the charts, for a course change is in order.

Set aside the sense of context
the natural order of things
what should be

expectations

a million possibilities,
what might happen

really?

Just accept the gift
a moment
of pure discovery

North wind should not breathe like spring this time of year. I wear the extra layer for a reason. The red scarf belongs across my face, not stuffed in a pocket. What is she thinking?

Who am I to question she who puts air under my heels and lifts my spirit to the sky?

Of mysterious disappearances
and stranger appearances
the lone llama
curiously
alone
on snowy plain
gazed at my peculiarity
running against wintry wind
with scarf waving so incongruously

Of all things to mysteriously materialize from the hidden folds of the material, from the fibre of space woven through time, was a flaming red scarf knit of love and affection. It broke the harsh wind that afternoon when my nose was its most tender.

And the llama stood alone, watching like a mother-in-law, approving of my attire.

Somewhere at depth
a current flows
yet we mostly don’t know it.

I didn’t,
until a well was drilled
and I happened to be there,
started feeling the water,
like I was the water

freely flowing, more secure than ever.

We mostly don’t know it,
this river that fills us
flowing at depth, somewhere.


Sound and sight returned, a reed was floating away from me. I knew I couldn’t catch it, but I could hold on to something within. I wanted to reach out to anyone, to everyone, to hold hands everywhere.

When speech returned, I could only speak words of love.

Let me sit at your table
where the past comes to life
in that southern smile
that sails away
in eyes of childhood blue

tell me again of the man you loved
the naval ring you wear,
his burial at sea

do his glasses help with the menu
or are you reading the waves?

Her presence was a window on the past and light to what may come; a tearful goodbye to a departed island and a gaze turned on the horizon; a reminder that we sail upon deep waters.

Always something to learn from Agnes.

A force mysterious works time and motion

to place me on this street
you just turning a corner
as a yellow bus passes
and an egret lights on a palm

at an unlikely intersection

we break into smiles
involuntary
as lightning suspends time

then a rumble, a shiver
we sense some great alignment

Spontaneous smiles: the stuff of tides, currents, and earth movements. And of improbable meetings on distant islands.

Perhaps probability answers to a higher order.

Were you always there
a beacon at midday
a statue
with a basket of pigeon peas?

Celestine, you appear in dreams
of innocents abroad
who unknowingly seek
a rock like you

Your apron is a bounty,
your hands stronger than mine
when I speak of an island
I'll speak of Celestine

A new friendship in a new country, a little boat launched on swirling sea of possibilities. Then a wave of uncertainty, headwinds bringing clouds and rain. Our thoughts turned to safe harbour, and as we feared being lost, we found Celestine.

There's a beacon in time of need, if we would but watch for it.

He opened the gates of St. Lawrence
with a salty smile
and dreadlocks that gave
twenty years' testimony
to living one love

his earnest offering
a perfect fit
for one seeking
the dignity he possessed
formed like wood
hard as stone

Patrick used to work the seas. Now he works coral stone by St. Lawrence Gap, his dreads knotted twice to clear the street. A lot of living for one all-embracing love.

One love, one life. Thanks for the bracelet, Patrick.

A tree, as others through time,
sways as on another hill,
another lone pine

whose shade eternal as sun
roots in memory
a bond unbroken

as salt and water flow
in perfect tension
ready to go

climb the hill
sit upon the ground
return to self

beneath my tree

as the beat of my heart in time to my feet beating a path I've run before, another place another time. The tree and its shadow swaying; the chemistry of respiration running down my back. Physical expression of the force that joins a person to a place and a time.

It seems luxury
to have so many days
for habits and passions,
through change and evolution
with and without illusion
from forefront to background
forgotten then found
our life as the waves
from sea to shore to sea
moving as one, we are free

Each day awakens desire to live again, free to grow younger with you, my love.

I wade through leaves
for Lorne, the gardener
this afternoon full of purpose,
with water dark as compost,
and leaves piled high as he prescribed
in his daily sunbeam
that carried Brussels sprouts
raised as children
into the very heart
of my nine-to-five illusion

“Take your time,” he advised, “use six-mil poly, 6 x 6 posts. And do you have a compost pile?”

Yes I do, Lorne. And I’ll make raised beds. If my Brussels sprout, I’ll name them for you.

Like waiting day and night
for a wave to find shore
from eastern ocean’s
distant reach
my orchid
summons from the deep
a surge long in the making
or so it seems to one waiting
impatiently on stone-strewn beach

Too impatient to count, even by sevens, I should learn to wait on the sea as navigators do. For on the seventh day she bloomed, by her count, not mine. And then others followed.

She is teaching patience; now I sleep, knowing the seventh will one day open.

We can prepare,
try to know everything
as happened before,
analyze it to pieces

yet we can’t get far
without hope and belief,
faith and desire

for nothing gets done
just on what we know.

Knowledge is like a photograph; it gives us some evidence, answers some questions, but some things are always outside its borders. Living takes us into the other dimension beyond what’s purely known.

Whatever moves us to breathe and makes our hearts beat is what carries us to tomorrow – from the known to the unknown.

Calls me
in the moment
to be steady in movement
and pull with purpose to find
that mighty mechanical me
wound to its wheels
turned to its chime
my perfect partner in time

Cuckoo chains are best pulled at the same hour each day; slowly, steadily, commanding of attention. Brings out that touch of machine in me, and a stroke of free spirit in that bird.

A perfect partnership.

If I am to follow a script
I should have learnt it by now
else my moves are but improvisation,
my words sourced in inspiration
unwritten, playing to a theme
unknowing of curtain and scene
awaiting the glow of lamplight
and a character heretofore unseen

Life plays itself out, and in brief pauses holds both reflection and apprehension. I shall take it as wonderful tension between knowing what has been and awaiting what is to come …

and ride the turns of pages being written.

My host and companion
filled me with conversation,
Pâte viande and Tortière Lac Sainte-Jean

Where Frederic Leclerc played
on the corner by l'accommodation

My shelter by night
and by day, the comfort
of a home awaiting my return

Where laughter overflowed
any wall of division

His open arms would reach around the world. His house, my house ;
sa maison était la mienne.

Let it go, just let it go
road ahead is stony, Lord knows,
there's thunder on the mountain
and a ghostly wind that blows,
but we're gonna let it go, don't you know

Spinning and a reeling, gotta stop that feeling. Too many signals crossing, channels changing.

Too much information, not enough communication, unplug awhile and be free.

Our day is going the way
of molten gold,
poured into clay
cast in the cold
of ancient night.

Rippling moonlight stirs
with the ever-distant lament
of the circling loon.

She meets me in the twilight, shares her mysteries in lines of poetry etched on stone. Knowledge meets belief and my cup overflows.

I warm to her blend of colour and autumn mist.

The best thing about the sport?
It’s the people.
The game, well it’s the game,
we don’t play well all the time
but after, that’s what makes it
something for living.
Let’s talk about our time together
the time to come,
plan the next game so we can
have more of that special after-game time

To really get to know someone on and off the field is something for life. I like to think my eyes are open on the pitch, looking to make that next play. But I’m blind until I make that after-game time.

To really know the sport is to know how to be alive.