Nature Proclams Him Hiking Along with God
C. Doug Blair, Waterloo, Ontario, 2013
Pilgrim Encounters They are on the road And the way gets tough And they often doubt If they’re strong enough. And I meet them there Offering up a smile And we share some shade And we talk a while. They have come from far But the vision stays As they seek their God And His righteous ways. He is all their light And their choicest fare And He leaves His jewels For them everywhere. In a thought of home In a bird’s sweet tune In the morning star In the brilliant noon In the hush at dusk With the day’s work done. In the Good Book’s tale
Of His valiant Son. They are never left Stranded in the lurch. And each fragrant bower Is for them a Church. And I think I’ll join In their pilgrim way ‘Long the upward road To Eternal Day.
Salmon Lead the Way At the last salmon swim upriver triumphantly, displaying their richest colour. Rocks, cascades and predators notwithstanding. Leaping, yes leaping The goal is at the source And not a rock Or obstacle will Stray you from your course. The stream you know Its thrilling flow Now seems to push you back But you must swim Faith’s verve and vim Renewing your attack. And rapids show Your prowess so And glorious red of years Gleams on your side Complete this ride The End becalms all fears. 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. 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. Beach Walk October Crowds having left sands Of summer's frolic Cardigan against the chill But sandals still
For that feel Between the toes. Waves assault And growl 'Gainst the change Pebbles hiss their response Rounded they are Through years in the pulse. Dune grasses yellowed But bound to return. Nothing on this turf Of produce or manufacture. Place only of rest Roaming and reflection By the Sea's breezy music. Grey-blue above Precludes the sun Wrapping the Visitor In melancholy. Plucky gulls bobbing Until re-launched To realm of their release Crying in two-tone hilarity For Someone Else Feels the interlude's delight
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.
Hillsong
Just the two of us Lord On this green country plot Raised a little bit high o’er the rest. And the breeze says you’re here To decipher my thoughts. Precious time that I treasure the best. And the wildflowers wave And the larks soar on high And the cattle just low, “All is good.” And the City’s rushed noise Is forgotten a while As I rest in your love, as I should.
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.
Sanctuary
A white-tail deer goes to the pond about an hour before dusk. The day has been hot and the cover and protection of the bush has been sought. This is a young male, on his own, about a year away from siring. Delicately he picks his way across the rocks to the water’s edge . The sound of his footfall echoes in surreal volume off the sheer rock wall. He stops at intervals to re-assess his surroundings.
Heavy clouds are rolling over to bring daylight to an early end. No untoward scent carried in the easterly wind. No warning cries of rooks overhead. But the lynx has had all of this already figured out. Downwind in the shadows of the rock wall. Hiding, crouched low behind some heavy boulders and spying the intended meal through gaps in the rock. Standing about two-thirds the height of the deer, but all musculature of the legs, shoulders and haunches. A head twice the breadth of the target’s head. Ears long and tufted, now absolutely still. Not a match insofar as hearing is concerned, but sense of smell almost three times as cultured. The deer lowers his head at water’s edge and takes in thankfully. White-tail trade mark having a flicking personality of its own. The leering predator is at right angles to the right, knowing that the deer’s first two drafts will be nervous, before the long satisfying one. The progress of the slow hunched feline creep is almost imperceptible. He has eaten within the last forty-eight hours. A porcupine. Delightful tender under-belly. Just one well-timed flip movement with that massive right paw, and a resolute chop to the throat and belly. The cat is in no panic or hurry. This one is almost more about the joy and challenge of the hunt. He freezes before stepping away from cover. Clearly he is enjoying the drawn out suspense. But something changes. A rock dove has also sought out the cool and refreshment of this recess. He scampers out from beneath an old log, top section submerged in the pond. Deer looks toward the direction of the miniscule disturbance. Sees the bird take flight. Sees behind the gray -brown spotted pelt, demonic ears and over-large liquid eyes. The chase is on. Looks like cat must get wet for this one. Graceful long legs of prey reach water’s bottom and spring…once …twice… thrice…cutting a chord of forty-five feet across the pond’s edge. Thankfully cat is no match for such acrobatics through the wet. Deer regains dry land and does what he does best up the path to the closest edge of forest. Now the rooks are crying, jeering, one imagines. Latecomers to the drama. Delighting over one soaking wet carnivore, bedraggled and appearing three-fifths of his normal bulk with rinsed pelt clinging. Ears drooped comically. Chalk one up for the fleet of foot. Tooth and claw is such a sad business. Isaiah 11: 9 They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord, as the waters cover the sea.
Ruby-Throat
I have never seen you. Those who have, say Perhaps they didn’t. Only slight stirring Of the nectar bottle, 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?
Sinbad's Pod
Six islands Hem us in Each about Mile away. Mist almost Imperceptible Can’t call it rain. Water takes on dark shade Engine noise forgotten. Scanning, but tempted To look too far. Two gulls Heckle our progress. Then a dark rock-like
Hump arises Spume and hiss. A smaller at her side. A larger, grayer male Bedecked with Barnacles Crusty souvenirs Of countless treks Galapagos to The Bering. Nine appear. My mate is ecstatic. They roll In slow cadence White wake Almost adheres Then slowly jumps ship. Setting a steady pace For our craft. Sinbad glides to our right Leathery corduroy striations Rolls to reveal One benevolent eye. Must content ourselves With sounds of spray And cutting run Lapping. Whining Hallelujahs Reserved for the intimate. And the deep.
Monarch
The dust twirled up Beside the acacia As sun announced In crimson audacity A new measure. Bellowings and snarlings Of blackness subdued By its fresh surveillance. He rose and stretched. Not wanting to remember The challenge. First from the presumptuous And then from the primed. Womenfolk waiting the outcome. Courtier beasts and birds curious. As monarchy topples. Joints all afire. Rippings to neck and haunch Discoloured, throbbing. And no society. No mother’s milk. No sibling’s lunge. No maiden’s heat. Just so… sad exile registers.
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, 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.�
Mountain God
Not changing With shifting wind. Cupping the sunrise As a thing Flashing forth By your consent. Source of waters
Highland streams Where small Scampering things Greet new day’s warmth. Seeming source Of thunders Arsenal of bolts Of shocking power. Singer of haunting Night wind’s tunes. There in place, Your place Long before the fathers. Halting our present breath With steep inclines, Testing the might Of leg and limb. Pausing to cradle Dwarfish alpen blossoms Hidden thawing beauties Delighting, perhaps, You alone. We look up to you And seek understanding. Mountain God Our God…forever. (Psalm 48)
James' Farewell Song
Galilee, A strange new urge sweeps over me A pull now stronger than the sea, And I a son of Zebedee, With ships and gear reserved for me, With knowledge of rich fishery, Through years of wooing azure sea, Now casting off my bark for free To follow Christ who beckons me … Oh Galilee. Galilee, The gentle hills surrounding thee Resound with news of folk set free; Of sicknesses healed instantly, Of torment turned to sanity, Of guilt and shame absolved for free; All this our privilege to see, And Christ reserves a job for me? And to his course I will agree. Have you now lost your hold on me, Oh Galilee? Galilee, Your moods can change so suddenly, One moment calm as calm can be, The next one pitching dreadfully, Our small craft swamped with foaming sea, While Jesus sleeps aft peacefully. We’ve reefed and bailed in vain ‘gainst thee, Safe harbour but a reverie. Has Christ’s call brought this storm to me? Is this your plan to reclaim me, Oh Galilee? Galilee, What strange deep evil lurks in thee, Provoking now to jealousy? What raging winds and waves I see, Where once you rolled so peacefully. At last, Christ rises to our plea And mounts the prow where all might see; Commanding you to let us be! Commanding such tranquility! Displaying his supremacy! Oh Galilee.
Galilee, For years you lured me out to sea, Bewitching inconsistency; Your song, your spray, your scent to me Were tokens of some deity, Some Mother Nature thought to be The essence of eternity, Yet somehow fickle, fancy-free. But now I see, Christ masters thee, oh Galilee; No other helmsman now for me, oh Galilee; And from your charms I am set free.