Category Archives: Nature

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The Moment by Margaret Atwood

treesonhill

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

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Shadow Lake

The road winds into the distance
rocks, roots, puddles and mud
draw them higher.
Each step one closer to the lodge
built years ago by others
who passed beneath more youthful trees.
Trees that now bend and sway
creak and groan as they lean
to hear conversation below,
chatter to ease the monotony
of the upward stretch.

Clouds twist and tumble
tease with grey and blues swirls,
jackets on and off
in rhythm with their play.

Each stride squashes every day worry.
Layers of adult responsibility shed
as boots splash and smiles spread.
Friends greet each other,
prairie dogs happy to ascend to the alpine,
to explore new territory.
Covered in mud they giggle,
children who play in the rain
because they can.

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Steady Drip

glacier ice(personal photo from inside the mouth of a glacier)

we turn the tap
water rushes
roars
sloshes under ice
cascades a cry through mountains
tries to hang on to steep slopes
warning of warming
a Swiss yodel
Suzuki echo
to get our attention
as glacial meltwater spills

our thirst grows

air conditioned car
to air conditioned home
we do not see
peaks slump on the horizon
a lifetime of habits
deposited downstream

polar caps melt
we lick our parched lips

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Stream of Thought

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(internet photo)

Noise.
Sounds and smells swirl.
A muddy pile
ready for trash can,
or possibly recycling.

Words recycle themselves
on the page,
powerless to escape
the strike of the pen.
Smooth ink flows.
A river confident in its strength,
its ability to carve landscapes,
reshape its borders.

Boundaries.
Fence posts to navigate.
Or, maybe, grab onto
if the water gets too rough.