Two poems from Georgian Bay

So many canopy edges, physiological and spiritual, here on Turning Island where I am a guest of my friend Penny.
She has been coming here for forty years.
Here are two poems from paradise.


*

Low tide.
Listless inlet.
Uncovered underbelly of rocks.
Fading stones.
Forgotten crayfish.

Finger of water.
Glistening trickle.
Slow release of gray to colour.
Sand shimmering.
Tide returning.


*

First light,
not even really light,
dissipated shades.
Bent tops of trees, a run of eighth notes,
three stars in a vertical line,
their music.

More light
and loons.
The stars shifting.
Trees now a tangled riot of lines.

The lagoon revealed:
sounds of a diving creature,
towing the reflected moon.

Now pink amid the branches.
Stars defying azure wave
The North Star, especially resistant.

Loons again.
Reveille.
Insects on cue.

Orange burst:
the overturned canoe declares itself
asleep on a slope.

Now sparks.
Now fiery light.
Now heavens and earth, begun anew.


*