I open my new bedroom window,
Sit in my chair and
Soak in the late spring morning.
The light is flat.
The subtle colours
Compliment one another.
The far shore;
With it’s blue gray hills,
And a line of white snow
Above the purple alizarin cliffs.
The soft sky and bay
Are a foil for the Marsh.
My Marsh.
Now in old fall colours
Without the glow of autumn.
It lays like a flat warm blanket
Caring for the remains
Of an Acadian Dyke.
This harbinger of earlier times
Reminds me that I am the interloper.
In the foreground,
Above the flood plane of the Marsh,
There are conifers and bush.
There’s a snowy field,
Dotted with patchy little islands of sleeping grass
And bent dead weeds
Just waiting for rebirth.
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