He had left the streetcars
And the Volvo ads
The smirking pan-handlers
And flower ladies
The smell of bagels
And urine in subway corners
The cadre of blue suits
And padlocked briefs.
In his forty-fourth year
Of mis-direction.
He bought the camp
With the little green
Patch out front.
Traded dictaphone
For a set of carver's tools
Offered by Willie
For beer money.
Willie, that syllabus
Of Huron lore and images
Three miles down the Road
And closer to Honey Harbour.
Craftsman now
And woodburner
Taking treasured bits
Of Huronia and the bush.
To that flea market
Up Highway sixty-nine.
Bringing harried holidayers
A sense of land and past.
(They thought nothing
Of the artisan's price.)
Artisan?
Wood chopper
Bay boater
Walleye troller
Night sky singer
Campfire dancer
With the west wind
Partnering.
And rock gray
And bush green
With dapplings of birch
And sky blue
And on the move.
Even the driving rain
Had become a welcome guest.
Glenda had balked at the idea
A time apart for re-grouping
They had said.
But even she had arrived
Last August.
And the cabin's little kitchen
Had become a sanctuary
Of pots, preserves
And Georgian scenes in oils.
CBC radio reminded them
Of another life
Sounds from across the Dominion.
And political wranglings.
But turn the page.
The music of loons outside
Now the featured performance.