BIRD SONG by Douglas Blair

BIRD SONG

NORTHERN NIGHT The lake is calm, Without a breeze. Bedecked with stars, Above the trees. And Ursa Minor Points the way. While moonbeams On the ripples play. And standing on The dock, I hear, Kathunk, kathunk, As boat bunts pier. Some plashing faintly Down the shore. A creature lands To rest once more. The birches rustle Just behind. A single puff

Of cooling wind. And peeper frogs, With chorus sweet, Perform where grass And lilies meet. A basso bull, In search of love, With thunderous throat His troth to prove. Mosquitoes skim The fluid face; And waterbugs Their etchings trace. But then a hush, A freeze, a pause; Some recess called By Nature’s laws. And dimly, faintly, He is heard. The eerie voice Of diving bird. A plaintive low, And yodel sighs.. Raised far out there To Northern Skies. Primordial scene, And timeless tune. The concert of The Common Loon.

CARDINAL Look to the top Of the poplar. Lifeless, and Armoured with glaze. Monochrome sky For a back-drop. Monochrome mood Now, for days. Caught in the Doldrums of winter,

Dampened and Chilled to the core. Hear him, the pure Note of promise. Fluid and full, Troubadour. Perched above all That is dreary. Scarlet friend, come With spring’s tune. Singing the Prophecy clearly: “It’ll come, It’ll come, soon.”

THEY RETURN They are back In such numbers, It’s shocking. And not just by one Or by two. The spring melt is Barely accomplished. And maybe the snows Are not through. Their trip from The warm Carolinas, Has trimmed them To our northern clime. Whatever they’ll eat Is a mystery, To fatten before Nesting time. Their song is now Clearly apparent. The sparrows and jays Must give way. Refrains from the Versatile red-breasts Are topping the birdCharts today. And soon come the Rains and the budding, 3

The bugs and The warm sunlit eve. And worms in the Yard they’ll be tugging, With pluck one Can scarcely believe.

STORM WATCH The storm’s approach The eagle sees. He waits for it Atop the trees. The meadow runs. Retreats in fear. The wily fox, The fallow deer. And skies grow black. And crack with light. And wind careens, As day turns night. The smell of rain And topsoil stirred Are ancient clues To this great bird. That soon will come An upward rush. His pinions locked. A mighty push. To launch the prince Of loftier skies Above the storm. Or else he dies.

While far below In gopher towns, In flash-flood’s flow, A partridge drowns.

MATERNAL Mother bird, oh red-wing, Valiant is the sight, Of your hot pursuing Raiding crow in flight. Skyward still dispatching From your stream-side nest. Careful of each hatchling, Startled from its rest. Swooping, pecking, diving, Driving threat away. Instinct for surviving Rules the air today? Mother heart, oh wonder! Sad you didn’t know, From the brush down under Comes the second crow.

THE PROFESSOR He stands there Just like a professor. In blue-gray So tall and so thin. His stride is quite Slow and deliberate. I’ve known many Men just like him. 5

His wings both Behind him for balance. His neck craning Forth in some search. And so keenly fixed, His attention. This could be his Classroom or church. His stilt-like, gold Limbs raise no ripple. His beaky head Slightly askew. The pond’s mirrored Surface reflection Takes of this great Bird, and makes two. Then stops his stiff Perambulation. Long neck and beak Flash in the sun. To raise in a Silvery splatter, His fish breakfast, Expertly won.

SILVER SKEIN Aluminum ladder Staked in sod. Autumn’s eaves-troughs, Dismal thought. Nippy nightfall, Much too soon. Whither daylight? Hold back moon! Climbing deftly, Climbing slow. It’s already Two below. Once again Procrastination. (Oh to try

A warmer nation.) At the apex Of ascent, Lightweight ladder, Slightly bent. Simple task In year’s transition. Scooping June’s Decomposition. Skyward now My sight is led. Sparkling glory Overhead. Frosty tendrils From the chimney. Something else, Above, but dimly. High and small, Beyond my sphere. Silver far? Or silver near? Forming, shifting, Like a thread. Windblown south, But purpose-led. Then the sound Makes sense of sight. Chorus, honking Through the night. Oratorio of fall. Timeless, mystic Wild-goose call. Silver skein From eaves-trough spied. (City lights On underside.) Luring one From hearth and home. Calling him To come and roam.

CEDAR-HOUSE VISITOR I enter the cedar stand With muffled footfall. The Bay wind Traveling at my side Did not make it into the canopy. Decomposition of years beneath. Carpeted mozaic, Deadfall, granite, root-fingers, lichens. Gnarled, ruddy sentries In light-green camouflage, Note my arrival. Guarding the Past. Guarding the Present. Guarding the Peace. Guarding the Plan. A barking raven-my herald. Doubtless, chipmunks and White-tail freeze in their fashion, Wondering if I mean harm. Temperature drops a few degrees. Shades are drawn. Hospitable host, though shy. Quietly checking out my manners. I sense I must stand still, Waiting. Honouring timeless laws Of territory. As if to be waved in. Frozen moment. (Excepting only the Carpenter ant dragging Moth five-times-his-size Along a fallen trunk.) Some Conductor flips his baton. Green-noise musical score resumes. I am in. Perhaps given the tour. Nuthatch sidles around a trunk To give me a peek. Above, though hidden, That clarion white-throated Summer sound: “Chee-chee-chee-CanadaCanada-Canada.”

All around me traces, Evidences Of the continuing symphony. Rabbit pellets. Fox-fur snagged on a branch. Tree-trunk porcupine lacerations. Persistent flies Around remnants of a red squirrel Mishap. Somewhere out there The bright relentless sun, Open Bay, lapping. Sparkles in the marsh grass At the sandy shore. My Evinrude. In here, community, concord, calm. Occasionally, a burst of brilliance Overhead. As if Sun-God Attempts invasion through the roof. But the assault diffuses Through lacy green And settles disarmed, Muted member of the carpet-floor. How much more, noble Cheewana Would have studied, Sensed, smelled, heard: He, in suit of two-year doeskin. He, in feather, clam-shell breastplate. He, the sum of many travels. He, apprised of cedar-house rules. He, the watcher of its ways. This is his, and theirs. I love it. And seek adoption. If only for the weekend.

RUBY-THROAT I have never seen you. Those who have, say Perhaps they didn’t. Only slight stirring Of the nectar bottle, 9

Lily’s coronet Or orchard blossom. Marvelous hoverer. Emerald tear-drop. Invisible wings And metronome tail. Persistent probe And blood-red throat. Searching the flower-beds. Oh, tiny sugar sleuth, Oh, flashing zephyr, Flying to eat. Eating to fly. Ever humming your Tune from exotic lands. Airborne jewel of the sun. When the bloom is off, When the days grow short, When the chill has come, When the hunt is sparse, Where comes the power? For your tropical quest? Two inches at a time?

SONG-OF-THE-WIRE An overcast day In the summer. A pleasant relief From the heat. And rising quite Early this morning, I’ve taken a Cool backyard seat. The birds are Surprisingly quiet. Are they as slowMoving as I? The leaves on the Maple turn over, 10

Requesting a drink From the sky. And upwards behind Me, I hear him, In notes softly Soothing and sad. His double-tone tune Of lamenting, Today makes me Mellow, but glad. I wonder what hurt He is hiding? What loneliness Looms in his soul? What sickness at home He is bearing? What trial he finds Hard to control? His heart is the Heart of a mourner. And pain is a Constant we share. He asks, “May I Help you by singing? I know, and God knows, And we care.”

KILLDEER Yes, Dad, I will follow you. Away from nest, Away from harm. Doing what you Always do. Drawing fire With false alarm. Chattering ill To catch my ear. Shivering wing, And staggering rear. Feigning weakness At the threat. 11

(Beast of prey Or fowler’s net.} Yards and yards From panting young. Comically, You lead along. ‘Til the risk Is neutralized. Then the burst, The wing, the skies.

NEIGHBOURS The pigeons around The Old Court House Know nothing of Issues at stake. No money nor marriage Nor murder Disturbs all the cooing They make. The pigeons beside City Council Know not if the Tax rate is high. Nor whether last winter’s White deluge Had pushed traffic Costs to the sky. The pigeons at Cenotaph Corner Will rest on the Soldier’s bronze gun. With no sense of War’s devastation, Or what was the cause Or who won.

But down at the Park’s peanut corner, A woman comes Daily at four, With treats for her Fine feathered neighbours, Who gather around By the score.

LEAMINGTON Our footsteps echo On the boards, As if wearing Wooden shoes. Marsh grass, cat-tails And bull-rushes All around. And this two-by-six Sidewalk meandering Through the blue-and-green, Like the face of some Children’s board game. I have often told Daughter Lauren About this place-Pelee. (Canada’s southernmost. Sandy spit of land On Erie. Parallel with California’s latitude. Gathering spot for Bird migrations, Monarch migrations, Sunday picnics.) We’ve taken in The Interpretive Centre, Electric tram To Land’s End. And now the Boardwalk. With curly-headed Five-year-old Hard to reign in. 13

To our daughter This structure Must seem endless. A surprise at every turn. Two painted turtles Frozen, sunning on a log. Muzzle of muskrat Breaks water, surfacing From lattice-work Of lily roots. “Bobble-TWEE, bobble-TWEE.” Red-wing perched on Rustling cat-tail. Bold black, red And yellow, Starkly contrasted To hazy June sky. Gulls in miniature, Distant, in the Open-water channels. Their movements from Liquid face to sky And back again, Jagged, silent, repetitive, Like some antique Motion picture. Now, up the stairway Of observation tower, A staggering thirty Feet-three landings. Lauren leading the way. Grim-faced, like Sir Edmund Hillary. Here, a beautiful vantage. The open lake. Sailboats. Caressing breeze Available at this height. Swallows accomplishing Break-neck acrobatics, Inches above Water’s surface, Harvesting bugs. One hawk, high up, Occasionally patting the wind With curled wing-tips, Getting the real bird’s-eye view.

Ducks congregating in Some of the larger Patches of blue. Other visitors arrive. These with spectacular Cameras. Time to relinquish The platform. Reluctant to leave. But still one more surprise. This one invisible, ‘Though try we might To penetrate his lair Of waving grass. “BOOM-pleep, BOOM-pleep.” Dripping tap sound. As if to remind us Of water all around. Lesser Bittern, Hunched, humble, hidden Resident of the marsh.

JUXTAPOSITION Next-door neighbours This spring Installed a basketball hoop For the eleven year-old. Front boulevard By their driveway, By the maple tree, And our bay-window. He has left tag, trucks, War and bloodshed For athleticism. Remarkable dedication. At all hours Thump-a-thump, 15

Bang-BRRRR. Thump-a-thump-Whoosh. Alone, with mates, With watching toddlers, Or admiring girls, He hones his skill. Our living-room Adapts to the pulse. He fades-we talk. He shoots-we read. He rebounds-we rest. He coaches-we listen. Acquiescence; small price For a Shaquille or Kareem. Strangely, twelve feet up, The maple tree Cradles three hungry nestlings And a mother robin.

RIVER DUCKS A walk by the river in winter My Father and I undertake. The bush is all glaze from the ice-storm, Affording a needed wind-break. The City with all its white panic Seems much further off than in fact. The Country calls us to adventure, With lunch and hot drinks duly packed. We’ve done this before, but in springtime With wildflowers and vine in the bloom. But this day holds different promise, Somewhere in the gray and the gloom. The trees are bereft of their songsters Save only one brave chickadee, Who scolds from his perch in the low brush, My Father and I cannot see. 16

Approaching a bend in the river My Father, with much softer gait, Binoculars pulled for a sighting, And signaling me just to wait, Steps out to the clearing at shoreline, Where ice has been broken away, By storm sewer’s much warmer waters, And ducks are out there, and at play. The first that I see are just landing, With synchronized drop, skimming wake, And greeted by others assembled. What strange, raucous music they make! The mallards, mergansers and pin-tails Who CHUTTER and MUCK and RANK-RANK. My Father and I are now laughing In spite of ourselves, at the bank. He watches their moods and their movements, Their matchings and sparrings and play, Their discourse and dunkings and flappings. My Father’s their student today. And with insight gained from the outing Will turn to the woodcarver’s skill, And fashion remarkable likeness Of feather and pose, wing and bill. Now this is the best kind of hunting. To live and let live is the way. And trophies we’ll have of the visit, And memories of this good day. I may be a teen in a tempest With thoughts much too awkward to tell; But here with the ducks and my Father, I know that he knows me quite well.

CEDAR- STRIP ODYSSEY It’s a good feel, And a painful,

And I’m stiff and sunburnt too. And the camp is almost set now And the kids are howling “food”. It was in The open water, As they laughed and bent their back, That I knew the group was willing. Heading windward, tack by tack. I was looking For some cottage, Where the river mouth began. And they teased my indecision: “You’re the tripper…trip, young man!” Then I saw it. It was yellow. (They had told me white with green.) And the dock was twice as long As the last tripper here had seen. And a lull Inside the inlet, Past the sheltering granite bluff, Told each straining Hiawatha, We would make camp soon enough. And the stream Now took to narrowing. Stately pines right to the edge. A barrage of bluejay banter, And a weasel on a ledge. With the late day’s Sunshine angled, Welcome silhouettes in shade. Black-green fingers now caressing Water lilies, gold inlaid.

And the flipping Of a gar- pike At a droning dragonfly. And the Sun-God peeking through the pines. A banquet to the eye. And the creaking Of the mesh seats, And the dribbling of each blade, And the knocking of the gunwales, Music Champlain might have made. Then a bending Of the river. And a sudden gurgling sound. And an intersecting, Sparkling cataract was found. And across from it A sand beach, Clean and soft without a stone. And an uphill mossy clearing. “Girls, our temporary home!” Quick the tents and Knapsacks tossed out. Quick the small craft pulled ashore. Quick the centre-poles and guy-wires. Quick the smoothing of the floor. Here at last Our one-night haven. First the swim and then the feast. And the growing sense of teamwork From the ablest to the least. After clean-up, Crackling campfire. And the night sky for a roof. And the basso of the bullfrog. And the happy songs of youth.

CHANGE OF PLANS Looking forward to this All month. Going back to the Camp. See the staff, the kids, The boats, the rock, The Georgian breeze. Probably have to sing Some of those crazy tunes At the dining hall. Why do they like them so? Got an early start. Five-day weekend. (Mom’s Parisienne.) Taking the back roads. Gentler pace. Much more to see. Dilapidated barns…but standing. Fractured fences. Tree-lined lanes. Occasional stable and paddock. Dairy cattle, luxuriously rising From their cluster-sleep. Swallows congregating on power lines, For the morning news. Marmalade farm-cat Peeking from the long grass By the ditch, Doing his stalking, jungle thing. Names like Lucan, Mitchell, Atwood, Listowel. Stop-offs On Dad’s old sales route. Good-bye Highway Twenty-three. Hello Number Nine. That was quick! Thinking about everything Except the driving. Still pretty groggy. Better sharpen up. Ahead, a vehicle sighted. 20

First one in forty minutes. Some kind of delivery van. Farm-house lane, To the left. Backing out slowly. Does he see me? Fifty miles per hour. Right of way. He’s on the road now. Left lane. Shifting into forward, slowly. Surely he’ll let me pass. Nope. Coming over slowly. The idiot. Lazy farm morning gone bad. Cringing fear pushes me To the right gravel shoulder. Traction gone. (Pontiac jerks abruptly To the left.) Driving at right-angles now. Ditch and wire fence ahead. Oh, and that hydro-pole. Miss it, Doug. Airborne. Scraping, thunking noises Underneath. (Flying Pontiac!) Sheep scatter, Wool on the run. Grazing a thing of the past. Ba-Bang! Taut hands and forearms Released from the wheel. Shoulders peeled from The vinyl seat. I leap to terra firma, And face my antagonist. “Palmerston Breads and PastriesFresh For Sure.”

Driver leaning From his window. Sees me in motion, Whole and hale. Picks up to highway speed. Gone. Farm lad appears With his collie. My traffic guide Across bumpy pasture. To talk to Dad. To call the cops. Ten minutes after phoning O.P.P. Extraordinary tea. (Probably their well water.) And some warm Cinnamon -glazed buns. Farmer’s kitchen-table talk: “Now sir, I’ll be wantin’ yer Insurance peticulars. Fifty feet of fence Out there, and cedar posts. Got to be replaced. As for Willy And the van, I’m sure it will work out. Bless God, you were lucky, you were.”

MARITIMER What are you doing On asphalt? Here at the back Of the Mall? Feeding on donuts And refuse? Screeching your Scavenger call. You should be down 22

At the lakeshore. Painting your white On the blue. Bobbing in wake Of the freighters. Nestled at pier When day’s through. You are the champion Of summer. Skirting the waves At the shore. Scouring the sands For some shellfish. Kite-like, you hang And you soar. Sometimes, I’ve seen You with cousins, Scrapping and Scrambling for treats, Thrown by some Jocular tourists, Tanning on Foldable seats. But I like best Your finale. Gliding when hot Day is done. Placing your V ‘Gainst the glory. Winsome white gull And red sun.

ZONED INDUSTRIAL A steelyard By the railroad.

A patch of trees between. A recent trend To asphalt. An eastern fringe of green. A creek down At the bottom, Beyond the southern gate. A wood slope At the top end, Where once the grouse would mate. Mid-day the Trucks are hectic, As I-beams cut the air, On waiting tusks Of forklifts, With elephantine care. Or pipes rolled From the flat-beds Like ancient logs of Tyre. Predestined For some project Through blueprint, blade and fire. But on a Wintry morning, The snow might trace the tale Of moonlit Lapin lovers; Of foxes on their trail; Of field mice Plucked mid-scamper By silent aerial claws; Of Nature’s Non-conformance To our industrial cause.

CONESTOGO A single-lane bridge In the country.

The Mennonites Use it the most, With corn fields Surrounding, And cattle, And wire-fences Nailed to old posts. A resting spot North of the suburbs, With black buggies Easy to spy. The horses all Glistening and clopping. A hint of a time We passed by. The father, broad-brimmed, Stately teamster. His bonneted wife At his side. The purple-dressed Daughters behind them, Enjoying the change Of the ride. Politely, they Honour my presence, Alone at the road-side, By car. I’ve come here to Listen to nature. Just out of the City, not far. With Bible and Note-pad beside me, A chance to see Life on the wing. As blackbirds explode From alfalfa. And plovers so Fretfully sing. Some rooster proclaims From a barnyard, His kingdom extends To the lane. A collie comes Over to greet me, With broad grin And soft, flowing mane.

I’m thankful For slow Woolwich Township. Its Mennonites, Back-roads and corn. And marvel at God’s Orchestration Of this sunny Sabbath-day’s morn.

FAIRGROUNDS County fair time! All are welcome, To the bounty of the fall. And the animals And craft shows And the bake-offs, Pies and all. See the children Cheer at horses, As they strut Around the ring. See the show dogs, Groomed and glistening. Hear the barberShoppers sing. Try your hand At tempting ring-toss. Win a prize For your best girl. See the County’s Biggest pumpkin. “Record-breaker For the world!” Gather ‘round The gay concessions: Cotton candy, Hot dogs too. Caramel corn And apple cider. Toys and T-shirts.

Buy a few. Neighbours visit ‘Round the table. Strangers made To feel at ease. As the sunset Yields to darkness, And a brisk September breeze. On come lights Of every colour, Made to dazzle Childish eyes, Which are open Way past bed-time. Filled with wonder And surprise. Rides are dizzying For the daring. Cars and planes That bump and climb. When the clacketyClack is over, Riders beg for One more time. Then the grandstand Show finale, With the music And the dance, And some local Thespian antics, Full of humour And romance. Fair is over For the season, And the car-park Empty soon. And community’s The reason, ‘Neath the cool September moon.

UP AND GONE I dreamed of a City Which had stretched To the point of bursting. Its new zones Boasted two-by-four, truss, Storm-pipe and cable. Its old zones, their High-rises and Desperate renewal. Smog, signs and noisemakers Were everywhere. Traffic constituted The armoured blood Of its arteries. Milling crowds, the corpuscles. Birds were not to be found. They had left abruptly For some remote wood-lots And fields (on soft earth Unsuitable for construction.) Few spoke of their Departure. Life was just too busy, Scheduled, connected, Multi-tasking. But occasionally, I made contact with An old-timer, In one of the sterile Paving-stone parks. His eyes would turn jolly As he remembered the comic Antics of the skipping sidewalk sparrow. Beautiful purple of a Grackle on freshly cut lawn. Tapping of industrious downy Woodpecker on the old oak. White shower of Pigeon wings at the Civic fountain. Crimson explosion of Cardinal at top-of-tree, Caroling with water-pipe Clarity. Scolding of blue-jay 28

In some territory dispute With a squirrel. Persistent gutturals Of fledgling crows Awaiting lunch from mother. Dipping gold Of finches over a Field of milkweed. Stunning red-wing Perched on cat-tail and Swaying in the streamside breeze. Linear procession of Mother Mallard and Six youngsters, stopping traffic. Robin Red-breast, Trotting lordly over his sod, Intent upon worm-sounding. Love-bird doves, Shoulder-to-shoulder On high-wire, Cooing at close of day. The old-timer, invariably, Would apologize About ‘going on so, And taking up my time.’ True, I had many Things on my day-minder. And the trip across The park, meant only As a short-cut. But his tale Of the birds, Departed feathered friends, Registered in me A heavy sense of loss: We had robbed their peace. We had chased them out. We had cropped their trees. We had trimmed their turf. We had sullied their skies. We had filled their ponds. We had invited them to leave. The silence eloquent. Our souls were impoverished!

MATTERHORN Was it just for joy That he pulled the sleigh From the rafter of the shed that day? Leaving wife abed Early Saturday To be on his way. Was it just for joy That he found the track In the sagging spot in the fence out back? Crunching hard-cap snow Past the tamarack. He was going back. Had it been this crisp In a former time? Had the sculptured ridge been this hard to climb? Had the cardinal sung In three-quarter time? Then, when in his prime? They would pick up speed As the hill drew near. Yes, and once right there they had spotted deer. And perhaps a crow Would announce,”They’re here!” My, the view was clear! Then the reckless rush To the vale below; As the sleigh would hiss o’er the yielding snow. And their breath would steam In the upward tow. They had loved it so. Was it just for joy He had come again? To their Matterhorn, to their Crystal Glen? To rehearse a play Staged for little men. 30

But it’s half-past ten! Was it just for joy? Or a missing boy?

SHIPS OF STATE On the courtly banks of Avon, With the theatre in view, And the audience-in-waiting, And the picnics, not a few. We come yearly to remember Where our marriage troth was set, To rehearse that night of magic When these hearts were firmly knit. Now the play had been the reason For our trip from out-of-town; But the ring was in my suit-coat, And my Queen in gorgeous gown. And the dinner was delightful, And the promenade stream-side. ‘Cross the bridge out to the island. Would she come back o’er my bride? She had surely seen it coming. And the question popped with ease. And the snap-shot still reflects Her glowing face, so quick to please. And the swans sailed past the island With their canvas spread in state, And their lowered necks, acknowledged, “Yet another finds his mate.”

Then the fanfare called the audience To the dimming lights, the play. But the Main Event was ours, not theirs, By Avon, that fair day!

THE OUTING It is a cooler Late-summer Sunday, When grand-daughter finally Gets the time to take Rose to the Park. The two cross The lawn slowly (walker included). Shaded picnic tables Invite to a comfortable Vantage point. Before arrival, Half-dozen ducks Amble toward them, Chuttering welcome. To Rose’s laughter and surprise. Once seated, Grand-daughter suggests Cold drinks, If that would be all right. Leaving the elder, in broad sun- hat. Five-year old blonde, In long braids, crying For lack of sandbox toys. Soothed by Rose’s reassurance And peppermints. Young couple, bicycling Along cinder path, All smiles and small-talk. Reminding her of John In that first summer after the war.

Grand-daughter back With refreshments, And apology about taking so long. Rose gestures a “de nada”. “It’s a good time for ice-cream line-ups.” Distant, muted loud-speaker. Rise and fall of children’s cheers. Sunday-school picnic. Cavalcade of colours - towels, Marquis tent, sun-hats. Grand-daughter feels no need To struggle at conversation. Rose’s eyes are everywhere, Twinkling. Wringing spotted hands, habitually. The younger pulls out A pocket novel. The older swings her legs Up and over the bench seat, To face the park’s edge. An open vista of Beautiful blue and clouds, Rustling poplars and Two elegant ancient willows. Hosting purple finches. Ninety minutes is enough. Back to the car, the apartment. She will tell John about it for weeks. He will smile back, From the photograph.

OWNERSHIP

It’s a story That came to me, Late spring, early one Thursday evening. We were walking The university grounds. (Still hoofing it Or busing or taxiingNo car in the driveway.) We had been to the Main Library. Hilary dabbling in Huguenot history, Celtic folklore, Charles G. D. Roberts’ Animal stories for the kids. I, following the canoe Of Grey Owl, Or the letters of My beloved Rutherford And Scottish Covenanters. The evening was Lazy-warm and the Leaves on the maple and oak In full splendour. The little campus stream Was trickling toward The duck pond, And the two of us Leaned on the aluminum Bridge rail, Arm-in-arm, silent, contented. Watching Mother Mallard Convoy her paddling brood of nine Toward overhanging bushes. No students passed. (Campus population at A seasonal minimum.) Waterloo traffic noise Muted through Surrounding wood-lots. I was impressed by A suggestion from within: “All things are yours, And ye are Christ’s And Christ is God’s.”

(A morning’s reading Had prompted this thought Some days before… Seems a little house-maid Worked in a large mansion. Many rooms, exquisite. Lots of dusting, cleaning, polishing. She reserved a special time Each day to enter Her employer’s study to work. There it was. Four-by-five oil-painting Of the Scottish Highlands. For him, “a good investment Picked up on tour overseas With his wife. Last appraisal – hundred and twenty-five Percent jump in value.” To the maid, this scene Was Heaven. Multi-coloured heather, Dramatic variable skies, Distant snow-capped peak, Ruddy little Highland cattle, And one old Jock following With plaidy and staff. With such a feast for the eyes Work became a luxury, Day’s chores completed with joy. Now who owned that painting?) Hilary tapped my elbow: “This is nice, isn’t it.” The two of us headed down The path, Fragrance of lilac from Somewhere up ahead.

A WATCH OF TURTLEDOVES (GETHSEMANE) Lovely evening, Lovely garden, 35

Just the setting For some rest. At the outskirts Of the city, Peaceful bower For my nest. Comes a human With his following, Hardly making Any sound. Three are with him In the darkness, Kneeling lowly On the ground. Coo-coo-ah, now He is weeping, With his face raised T’ward the sky. While the others Nestle, sleeping; Surely they must Hear him cry? All else quiet, But his pleading With someone I Cannot see. Oh, dear human, Were I able To flit down And comfort thee! Coo-coo-ah, yes

He’s the same one, Who comes often To this place. Yet I hardly Recognize him, For the tension In his face… Comes a breaking In his pleading, And the strain now Turns serene. Just as if Some bless’ed answer, Has arrived from Him unseen. Coo-coo-ah, look! Men are coming, Of a harder Rugged kind! Coo-coo-ah, flee! They mean trouble For whomever They may find! Coo-coo-ah, Man, Do not stand there Just as if you Do not mind! For a moment, Hesitating, They examine What they’ve found. Then he speaks; His words of power

Send them reeling To the ground! Here’s your chance, Friend, Head for cover! While they stagger In the dust. All your youngsters Seized the moment, They are fleeing As you must! But he simply Stands before them As the fetters Are applied. Oh, you could have Kept your freedom, Oh, if you had Only tried! Troops and torches, Disappearing, With my human Well in hand. Children saved, while He is taken. Yes, I think I Understand. Coo-coo-ah, Coo-coo-ah, Coo-coo-ahhhh…….

BIRD-WATCHER There must have been Some sunny days, In golden meadow fair; When free from crowds And free from toil, You sought the purer air. And as you strolled The verdant paths, The wee birds met you there. Did not they sing At your approach Their fanfare, clear and sweet? Did not they peer From wayside nests To note your passing feet? Or else display Above your head Some agile, aerial treat. Oh, villager, Oh, carpenter, Oh, rabbi to the meek. ‘Twas you who reached From Unseen Halls To form each wing and beak. ‘Twas you ordained The feathered friends So delicate and weak. Then from the fields And azure skies, You passed to City’s din. To show to powers Their shallow hope, Perhaps, their souls to win. In temple halls Where Paschal doves Were slaughtered for men’s sin.

TAKING THE WINGS OF PRAISE Morning is up! Whate’er the weather, Night yields to praise, Singing in feather. Chorus of joy Starting the day’s chores. Still heard at dusk Thanking for day’s stores. Might all our ways Copy the wee bird, Filled with God’s praise, Ever by him heard. Then so much more Bless’ed a sojourn, Would we but sing; His tune of trust learn. Life is a thrill, Vivid and stirring, Join in the song Each day occurring. Father in Heaven Waits with rich treasure, Loosed by our praise, Giving him pleasure. Sometimes the sun Warms all our heartstrings, Bursting with song For gifts his love brings.

Other times, praise, Sacrifice dearest, Meets cloudy days, Singing faith clearest. Whate’er befalls, Music uplifted Always enthralls The breast so gifted. Yet ours much more Gladsome a chorus. Jesus prepares Endless spring for us!

“ A very considerable land, which hath more than four summers in the year. Oh, what spring-time is there! Even the smelling of the odours of that great and eternally blooming Rose of Sharon for ever and ever! What a singing life is there! There is not a dumb bird in all that large field; but all sing and breathe out heaven, joy, glory, dominion to the High Prince of that new-found land. And, verily, the land is the sweeter that Jesus Christ paid so dear a rent for it. And he is the glory of the land.” (Samuel Rutherford, Letter to Lady Ardross in Fife, 1646)

Douglas W. Blair 20-20 Mayfield Avenue Waterloo, ON N2J 4M5 (519) 747-1033 Email: douglasblair@rogers.com