Landfall
We are not made of puny flesh
nor even iron-red ochre rock,
but water. Everywhere,
it has more claim
on our existence than
ever forest
or the passive, bovine fields,
for here have been
these lakes
and ponds and inlets for
a thousand thousand years.
This land’s long fingers interlace
the fingers of the sea
wearing boulders —
granite glacier gifts —
as promissory jewels
betrothing land and water here
in half a billion years
of brawling dance.
In testament to which the wind
forever roisters its delight
upon the great bald rock,
and sets the forests thrumming
to its long insistent note.
We people this domain by leave
or whim of forces
long the landscape rulers
who will take
what sacrifice they will
whenever gale incessant roils
the sea’s long fingers
over granite headlands, ships, and
even iron men.
Sealing
No one said
it was safe on the ice:
not kids skipping over
the inshore floes,
danger a part of the game.
Never the mothers alone at home
shawl-tight at the windowpanes.
And never a sealer
boarding a ship
or breaking a path in the bay.
So what would you,
if forced to choose,
leave behind on the ice
if a gale from the east swept in
or the floes began to break:
a peavy pole? a flint and fire?
a pile of pelts or a pal?
No, only the owners
could barter with life
and did again and again
in the company ledgers,
St John’s and Away,
the expendable units
were men.
Consequential
Onto the ice to kill the seals
Onto the boats to catch the cod
On to the woods to fell the trees
On to the wide proud land next door
for admission
to modern improvements
of schools
and hospitals,
taxes and international
attention, which
soon enough
will bring an end
to sealing,
and fishing
and lumber
and pride.
Home Colours
Jelly-bean houses
of Newfoundland ports
are the licorice all-sort pastels
of mainland maritime towns.
Not deliberately dull
in Cape Breton or west,
just Presbyterian sure
that the world shouldn’t paint
itself up quite so bright,
but keep its dignity
zippered tight
against the eastern gales.