Doug Blair (April 6,1951 / London, Ontario, Canada)
My Slim Bark
My slim bark, my slim bark
Glides smoothly cross the lake.
A common loon, a father
Thinks this a strange mistake
And flounders, a seeming wound
To lure me from his brood
As if my ever paddling here
Were something wrong and rude.
But I know so much different
The waters seem like home
And play with me from dawn to dusk
As happily I roam.
Sometimes they roll a coaster-ride
And I have scarce to pull
Sometimes they chop in drizzle's haze
And work is plentiful.
The sky affords a canopy
Of God's most vivid art
In clear blue heat, in threatening clouds
To thrill this wanderer's heart.
The air is fresh, my lungs are clean
The smell of pine delights
A moose looks on from evening's shore
And oh, those northern lights!
And such has been the legacy
Of voyageurs of yore
Who crossed these lakes, and camped these rocks
Through many moons before.
A small fire sheds its warming hue
The limbs all happily ache
And small frogs close the day in song
As sweet dreams overtake.
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