by Angelina M. Claver
Come walk on the quiet side,
to the meadows, gently.
Take care not to tread on the downy fiddlehead
or crush the shy fawn lilies, aquiver underfoot.
Rest awhile, by a fallen mother tree
nursing buds of a new hemlock
or a baby mulberry.
Walk further on to the quiet side,
through the woodlands, softly.
Beneath the grand garry oaks
past the red-barked arbutus
to where grandmother cedars stand
in their finery of Spanish moss.
Follow the stream, as it sighs and sings
and there to the great blue edge
it will bring you.
Walk farther down to the quiet side,
slowly along the trails to the bluffs
abloom with windblown yellow broom bush
sprung from the craggy rugged rocks.
Bend low, peer down the dappled waters
below, where the purplish starfish bed
and seagrass grow for the spawning smelt.
Now the sun nuzzles the mountain snow
and the sky is cast a rubescent glow.
The handsome heron in his blue-grey suit
stills his clappering, as though deep in thought.
Walk no farther to the quiet side
for there, there where you’re haunched
as you comb through the kelp
the ageless stones
and the smoothened glass
is your rightful place amongst
the driftwood washed ashore.
© Angelina M. Claver