Beaver Pond

Canada Day



Beaver Pond

After heavy rain, the waters leave the beaver pond and flood the wooden causeway.

The wood is warm and giant tadpoles, all heads and tails, rest lazily in sunlight and shallow.

The traveller takes off her shoes and socks and paddles barefoot in warm waters.

The lilies are budding. Soon they will emerge and Solomon in all his glory will not be arrayed like one of these.

Clouds clutter the water; the lily pads are stepping stones, green across this liquid element.

A slight breeze creates wrinkles across tranquility’s face.

Cloud games, mind games: the sun drifting in and out and the waters still, then rippling.

The language of hope and love, of a dove returning over vast waters.

Lonely the traveller: the pathway lost; where now is the truth, the way and the light?

Beavers, ensconced in their lodge, rejoice in the bouquets pledged by these waters.

Drowned ships, bereft of ensigns, raise barren, skeleton masts.

In the rigging of the shipwreck, four large, black birds chivy us home with a chorus of joyous coughs.