ESCAPADE

For Demerara bound with cod she flies 
running a thousand miles with scarce asail, 
mad for the Carib moon her rigging cries, 
her limbs half-naked in the chasing gale, 
makes port, disgorges, takes on, casts away. 
Heavily laden she strikes a homeward tack, 
now tipsily sedate, demurely gay, 
down a long rolling rum-and-honey track. 
Her mouth, cool-green in lift, foam-white in dip, 
sighs maudlin secrets for the sea to keep, 
withdraws, whispers, withdraws with lingering drip, 
forever thirsty, forever drinking deep. 
This she'll remember, when off the foggy Banks 
the clammy cod lie quivering on her planks.

HIGHLAND LAMENT

I must go, the storm is making 
over Durnish to the sea, 
and the night's own heart is breaking, 
breaking, too, this heart of me.


Let me go, the flutes are calling 
where the fair sea-sirens dwell; 
there my Donal's sail is falling, 
snared within their fatal spell.


In my skiff I'll follow after; 
from their lips your face I'll save, 
and I'll bring my heart of laughter 
to your home beneath the wave.


If your foolish eyes be straying 
to the sea-maid's beauty there, 
I will clasp you, I will hold you, 
I will bind you with my hair!

TO THE MAYFLOWER 
(an Acadian Neutral's song)     1960

We longed to serve and save the land
From searching fingers of the sea, 
To push away its salty hand
From field and fruit in Acadie. 
We served the rose and lily both
And wished to save them from the sin 
Of war and hate and savage oath
That would have slain our kith and kin. 
The Norman lily shook with wrath,
The Saxon rose blushed dark with hate; 
The mayflower starred the woodland path
Too bright to hear their sharp debate. 
The mayflower grows fresh and low,
Lacing the air with her spicy breath; 
Through patches of melting ice and snow
She sings new life and the death of death, 
Singing the end of hate and cold,
Of hearth-stones blazing evermore, 
The end of pride and greed and gold,
Singing of love and the end of war. 
Blushes darkened the rose's face,
Scornful pale was the fleur-de-lys; 
But peace had kissed with a tender grace 
The mayflower of Acadie.

WRITTEN IN NOTRE DAME, MONTREAL

Candles flutter and fail, 
flutter and fail and die; 
over the alter rail 
the gray Lord Christ hangs high.

Pale His face; but flushing 
crimson flows the tide 
through the ages gushing 
from His wounded side.

Broken souls kneel praying 
casting their burdens down: 
nor flinches He the paying 
nor minds the thornier crown.

Never the ages bringing 
sharer of His load, 
companion of His singing, 
venturer on His road,

vainly His heart goes yearning 
down the footworn aisle 
for a friend's discerning, 
for a comrade's smile.

Candles flutter and fail, 
flutter and flare again 
to the Lord Christ dim and pale 
and patient in His pain.
 

THE CLOCK 
(to Gloria)

Master Reason built a clock, 
wound it up and made it talk, 
cause effect, effect cause, 
all that is and will be, was, 
made the hands go round and round 
leaving all where it was found. 
Tick-tock, seconds mock, 
mock the minutes, tick-tock. 
Hours crawl and quarters run, 
all is ended, all begun. 
Wars and revolutions matter 
nothing on this numbered platter. 
Rising walls and falling towers 
vainly clutch the sliding hours. 
Neither North nor South they go, 
East nor West nor fast nor slow, 
cause effect, effect cause, 
all that is and will be, was, 
tick-tock, seconds mock, 
mock the minutes, tick-tock.
If its heart could beat like mine 
and its face with fervour shine, 
if its hands could clap with glee 
and its minutes could get free, 
if the clock could break away 
from its Master, it might say: 
years are not more than they seem 
in the instant of a dream, 
ages weigh the wintry sky 
winking slow his leaden eye, 
hounds of labour harry the day 
over the hills and far away, 
sorrow swells the heavy minute 
till the years have room within it. 
Time itself was caught and pressed 
into an ancient Thorny Jest.

NOVA SCOTIAN IN CALIFORNIA

The drowzy palms have drugged to peace
my senses as the songbirds cease
their golden-throated hearts’ release;
but vagrantly does my heart remember
mist on a hill in a lost September.

The fields in brilliant cassocks rise
and tilt their heads; and straightway flies
their hallelujah to the skies;
but fondly does my heart remember
leaves in a lane in a lost November.

Under the moon’s blood-orange light
Sierras stretch their indolent might
gathering grandeur from the night;
yet strangely does my heart remember
snow on a sill in a lost December.

HALIFAX

Robed in my emerald citadel, 
throned above the tide, 
marking the tangle of the winds, 
my destiny I bide.

Peering out of the shadows that bruised the sunset bars, over my clambering housetops I speak back to the stars;

More than a key in a mighty gate 
for a strong fist to turn,
more than a lonely road to walk 
and a bitter book to learn,