GenesisI need a gift to keep me true,
to comfort me, to be the glue.
Memory is the gift I choose.
There is a crashing, dashing,
ever-splashing throbbing
in the heart of me.
The flip-side is a gentler song,
a lovely, lapping melody
that croons and soothes my soul along.
High on a mountain
a white cross gleams,
the guardian of my destiny.
The fresh, the pure Loch Lomond
nestles neatly there.
A giant sleeps.
Gulls scream in wild,
wide swooping.
I am caught up in their lilting-looping.
I am a gull.
I swirl. I soar. I swish.
I dive. I plummet. I fish.
What fun to be one,
to be so far flung,
not to be undone
with my song never sung.
The pines, the birches,
a vivid mixture.
My mind exults
in nature's pictures.
The swirl of the bagpipes,
the twirl of the kilts;
Victoria's Day on everyone's lips.
What wonderful words
to relish and savor...
Kaministiqua, Chippewa,
Kakabeka, Nannebijou.
A rock ledge, an underpass,
The haunting whistle of the train;
the quiet forests coup de grace.
This turf terrain, this memory's chain,
shall ever be the pulse of me.
These are my tools, my history.
by Colleen Gordon