Genoa Bay

The tide 
bursts in like
a river. With it, clouds.
Gulls rise, crying. Wings flash on the
mountain.

White blooms
of arbutus,
like seaspray, cloying. Red
bark peels, leaves drop, reveal green heart
wood. Scarred.

Floathouse
artist pounds old
nails, bends steel, polka dots his
boat. Turns jetsam to mandalas,
cursing.

Notes
Cinquains, again.  Pictures were taken in Genoa Bay, where we have been anchored this week, a wonderful harbour full of colourful characters, live-aboards and float homes.  Genoa Bay is at the end of a dead end road, and surrounded by steep mountainous land.  The photos are of the marina from the shore, of an arbutus tree in bloom, an arbutus trunk, and two large sculptures made by Genoa Bay artist, Tom Faue. As far as I know, Tom doesn't curse as he makes his mandalas, although he might. The line was poetic license, not depiction.

Every spring, hope

I am
thinking of my
mother sliding through the
dappled light, on her way to
market.

She stops
at the pond to
listen to the frogs sing.
Every spring the same story, every
spring, hope.

Notes

This poem is composed in cinquains, five line syllabic stanzas that follow a rule in which the first line has two syllables; the second, four; the third, six; the fourth, eight; and the final line has, again, two syllables.

The poem was written while enroute from Halifax to Calgary, over Saskatchewan, then posted in Calgary, while waiting for a flight to Victoria. (Kudos to free wifi services in airports. Thank you!)

Photos were taken in or near St. Paris, Ohio, where my parents live.