Peace Amongst the Island of Saturna 2003

The congregation of these Souls not lost,
But as adventurers seeking the same dreamy consequences,

The pretty view a shock to the earthbound hiker,
An hour trek to the bluff left many breathless but without any regrets,
Every ration was consumed with almost religious ritual,

People paired up in a protective compromise,
Which is the silence to their vulnerability; perhaps warding off demons,
Most are good and all were seeking peace and connection to life,

The Artists happily search the area in the perfect early morning light,
Capturing that moment as a reflection for all time,

Sunworshippers absorbed the rays of heat,
With exposed sunblocked skin in their colourful suits,

Many hikers were rewarded with the beautiful view of the Islands of the Gulf,
Moments later they would be replaced with other visitors wearing different apparels,
Somewhat like that quickening light of the day; which changed the landscape,

The small cove protected the overnight boaters in a restful haven,

And in the lower pastures and wildflower fields,
Feral horses would roam and graze on the sweet grasses and wildflowers,

All was perfect that day,

The movement was in a slow transcendental rhythm,

To the kaleidoscope of that island.

Finn Slough 1978

Moment of silence and contemplation,
I've lived here many years so long ago,
A community of tranquility,
A reality somewhat would many like to know,

For some quaint time in that village,
Which shares the Frasers passage,
My house filled with memories viewed and enjoyed by selective visitors,
Please don't envy or admire the quaintness,

In the seventies she floated defying the tides,
And played with buoyant anticipation with each ebb and flow,
She now stands on her six beautiful legs,
To the greedy "No" I would not sell my abode,

I have known of her embrace towards the wreckage and tidal ducks,
Their journey I look too with fondness and not despair,
The brave adventurers would kayak sometimes pass my sundeck,
My make shift garden with pots of generosity,
Plenty to feed the family and more,

The neighbours would share stories and adventures,
Now corrupt politicians try to lie and swindle us out of our homes,
We love our water accessible village,
They'll only see waterfront land; what a bunch of greedy flippers,
And we pay taxes and know to stand up for what we adore,

A friendly couple said " hello" many years don't you know,
We're still writing and sharing memories,
They call it sweetly the painters village at the slough,
I along with them discovered many more Artists painting,
Along our dike and lovely ones too,

Many have moved and I miss them wouldn't you,
My home has been renovated with such loving care,
But it 's pontoon-barge base and hidden recess remains for me,
The foundation of what was once so dear to me,
I love my Finn Slough; the time there never faded and memories which I hold onto.

To The Picnic 1992

Charades on the middle-arm where the waters venture and meet,
The Straits call their salty waters to greet the Frasers flow,
Lovers tie their sailboats and stake them securely to the beach,
The man will walk and search for that ideal picnic site,

Friends just prepare to entertain one another,
Visitors seek out this parks accomodations,
Everyone is happy and alive,
All seems calm and serene,

Even the loud engine surge from the seaplane taxiing,
Never stirred anyone to look,
Distance and the breeze will disperse that sound,
Its terminal floating on a liquid runway,
No one really cares about them,

The cormorants surefooted,
Cling on their floating places,
They're special and oil their feathers,
During preening they'll digest their last feed then hunt once more,

As every living being nows is at peace,
An orchestration to direct the day becomes unique,
Every chapter is different on that beach,
But the stories become much more similar,

After the picnic,
The woman languid happily in the warm westerly breeze,
One could paint, scribe, or strum the mandolin,
The play on ones senses would be quite exquisite now on this beach.

The Clouds which Shroud 2008

You distant clouds high up in the atmosphere,
Slowly with the curvature of the earth come into my consciousness,
Are you ready to encapsulate this sphere,
Remembering once many many springs and the sweet fragrance of Mother Earth,
Will trigger a fondness from the Heavens,
I below would throw the soft blanket over my form protecting me from the unknown,
I really wonder what damage you could inflict on the blue body of the planet below,
The shuttering alder leaves beautifully dance with the breeze,
You Artist rest from the ache in your neck,
Each tier of the clouds rolling gently by,
That invisible force I wish would lift me too; high into the sky,
One could imagine to reach up and taste the delectable soft meringues,
A flash of the sunlight would challenge the opening,
But another fluffy saviour surely would fill that space,
One can dream in a sequence and explore the Clouds which Shroud,
Only the Alder and it's towering friends have seen this game,
In the Woodlands still unnamed.

The Stage of Life 2002

Beacon Hill Park,
Your dormancy once eluded the visitor,
Warm Spring days with the dappled pastel colours,
The cascade of petals,
Only your blossoms remain in a lost space,
Each gust of the westerly winds,
Showered and praised the lovers of nature and life,
A sweet accent and fragrance for that certain memory,
The need to feed,
Some wait to be fed,
That beautiful swan,
The feathers white and bold,
Somehow the pintails, mallards and squirrels know,
Everyone is alive and come to absorb the details of another spring,
Rebirth for the coming of artistic things,
Summer is waiting impatiently for it's searing expanse,
Save the shortened spring days,
And saddening decay of age,
They've begun to go to seed,
But other summer flowering entities take the stage,
Appearing for their awakening show,
And our pleasures of that cherished day,
Our play is sure to go.