I 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

Send Comments to Greg Gordon MD, CFI, cydoc@earthlink.net
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