Song of Georgian Bay

They hang above the limpid edge of earth,
these ancient granite whaleback islands.
Lichen-loving. Obedient in prayer. Fawned over
by the bent boughs of a million soothsayers.

Can there be art breathed 
into the wind-shorn shape of pine
Or is this strange embrace I feel, 
contrived and only mine?

On certain days there is a shock,
of disbelief, as bones warm on hot rock,
to feel against my eyes
a dark blue, dripping stain 
from some celestial vein; 
to find myself caught, 
between wishing I could rise 
to a truer home, 
or stay down here, to hover 
with wind-gifted gulls that swoop so low  
they sip remote and liquid sparks of light 
that must have fallen on this private sea
from lofty bracelets of the night. 

But I am earthbound,
where rawness is everything,
and I have found ways  
to start from the beginning.

Not far from here, are places
no man has ever stepped, nor virgin slept, 
and standing barefoot in such sweet moss 
I feel my heart race, to think 
there’s now the impress kept 
of pure creation without trace,

like crash-cold water closing tightly
on the hot torpedo bubbling of my body
fallen arched and naked
through a hair-tickling wind,
wingless, 
and in love with beauty.