Out of Nanaimo, Tofino Bound

A Poem by Ken e Bujold

What should I make of these old-world woods:

moss-backed galleons shadowing the mist-fended coast,

upright ewes to feed the two-footed beast

anchoring in the shady shelter of the sound's

crystal jade waters. No match for the flaxen-locked

interlopers staggering ashore at first light,

the befoul'd breath of their rapacious appetite,

a foreign scent--so ill-prepared for the break

of nature, these ancient giants never stood

a snowball's chance against the hounds of Drake.

So soon cursed dawn, when world turned upside down,

a lone white tailed eagle scanning from above,

the Scottish Cook waded ashore to seed the crown,

in the shade of a glum oak stood, one glove

about the surveyor's stick, a level eye

cast across the horizon divining

the new tomorrow's divisions, from sea

to mountain's sighted stern, the realm's square cutting--

the first glimpse, there would be no compromise

to the grief-backed gallows diminishing sunrise.

And the rains commenced. A momentous rhythm

of torrential tides clear cutting mountains

broke river's back through chastened canyons,

the endless beavers march damning the lissom

heirs of antiquity to the grim fate

of servitude, the mordant silence

of measured yards of hard-wood freight.

Through the thinning pines winds weep the sky-less

expanse of long-lost sentinels,

seek words to close the unfinished sentences

of an age. Long before the highway tore

a strip through the heart of Eden, before

the want of a future rendered a need

for binding earth to a common purpose,

this land, this blissful island, must have read

like the original sentence, Situs

Inversus, organic, green overtaking

green, the senses in tune with the in-bred

sense of the very first hour of our making--

this is what I would make of this old-world wood.

Ken e Bujold

© 2022 Ken e Bujold

Author's Note

while this was conceived as part of a much longer cycle of connected pieces, the rest is still not cooperating. This though is I believe capable of standing on its own in the sun until such time as the other islands heel to the poet's wishes

My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register

Reviews

Dave Brown

A truly beautiful area that has recuperated to some extent because of love of nature that is attempting to hold back endless development.
However, this year, salmon are dying in numbers, unable to spawn and the whole general area is facing what is supposedly, the worst drought ever.
I watch with mounting concern as much of the mature growth are showing increased signs of losing a survival struggle.