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The mechanical Moses of a bus
parts the floods on the road.
Snow begins to whisper down as I
whish aside the condensation
and dream out:
longing for a tartan-shirted
Man from Nova Scotia,
with an accent crocheted
in Time’s rough yarns,
to pick me up and pull me
backward across the Atlantic;
my eyes straining East
as we land
where the un and the familiar
are,
and flutes and fiddles diddle to die-day.
My country feels the same sea’s spray.
Thus my life might be. Another side
of a white-horsed sea.
But new coined.
copyright 2012
Karen J
McDonnell |
