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Retired from 10 years in the Canadian Navy, and 28 years in the Canadian Diplomatic Service, with postings in Beijing, Mexico City, Sri Lanka, Romania, Abu Dhabi, Guyana, Ireland, Trinidad, and, last but not least, India.

Thursday 30 August 2007

The Final Autumn



Like some monolith to a youthful Endymion
the slate-grey sky did not permit
the epitaph etched by strato-cirrus
to be read.

Stark trees, wind-shorn of frivolous foliage,
did cold penitence for their summer follies:
a circadian confession to ensure
vernal resurrection.

Restless, colourless waves of November
marched mindlessly to assault the strand,
implacably expunging the bare and carefree footprints
of Summer.


* * *
His perusal was fond; a lover's caress
fraught with the echoes of past joy.
His eyes drank deeply of autumn's tumultuous brew;
but his heart savoured past vintages.

The echoes swirled in aural and visual
kaleidoscopic patterns:
chimerical memories vying for recognition.

A child, he saw, wading through sun-warmed tidal pools,
spying drifts of mermaids hair,
entranced by magical shells
exploding in profusion about his joyous toes.

Before his eyes the child became a man,
guiding another child
through the mysteries of summer,
through the wonder of the seasons.

A young man, he saw, puzzled and confused,
searching barren streets
devoid of the companionship
of light and laughter.


* * *
The young man, changing, now more assured;
older, but certain in his steps,
sure of his direction
towards some unknown goal.

The old man watched himself, fearful,
loath to follow the path
that led inexorably
beyond his ken.


* * *
His return was slow, a painful trudge.
His wife, younger, bore his Celtic melancholia
with the ease of loving practice.
Bringing his Bushmills', she told him,
now warmed by the fire, that the children
would be home for Christmas.


* * *

On First Seeing Bermuda





Southeast breeze carries
scent of jacaranda,
eucalyptus,
oleander, and bougainvillea.

Houses of pastels
that breathe in gentle sunlight:
perfection set in
manicured lawns.

Accents attenuated
from the harsher Caribbean,
friendly voices
greet, and smile.

From Gibb’s Hill,
a visual smorgasbord
tasting subtly, and sadly,
of Eden lost.


The Ancient Hippie

The Ancient Hippie
Natraj dances with us all.

Welcome, and Namaste

Greetings fellow travellers,

For you American friends visiting, you will notice that this old Canadian uses Canadian English in this blog: kindly bear with me. As I blog primarily on subjects that are vitally interesting to me, I appreciate all feedback.

As I tend to be a bit of a language usage freak, I will, as required, edit obscenity and rude comments. That said, I welcome your opinions and discussion.

May your Dharma be clear

Peace

"If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
That you have but slumb'red here,
While these visions did appear."


Puck’s epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream