Nightlost At Georgian Bay

One of the darkest
whispers I hear
is the restless wind 
that shakes us upright,
only to stare into our own clear waters,
or fall on rocks to shatter.

This is a land for pagans,
and the rightful ghosts of voyageurs.
I heard their paddles sighing
in my sleepless night, 
saw chanting fires,
felt their souls beckon
in the loon’s mad cry - 
knowing we were nightlost.

I cannot count the price of searching
or the peace of finding,
so wind will never ask to blow,
nor tree to bend.

There is a secret company 
of souls I love,
wordless, ancient, water-borne;
one of the voices of care,
that cannot be found 
unless already there.