Soft sweeping hills carved into the earth
Rolling slopes next to lakes
and the infinite eastern sea
Pillars of fog stolen from Scotland hold the sky
and clouds of grey, ambiguous and intertwined with each other
Landscape like a jigsaw puzzle, where every piece is unique but
molds to create a greater unified whole
I sit floating in a personal ocean where I hunt for elusive
fish with an old man who smells of rum
Towns deserted by long forgotten ancient ancestors
and skeletal sailors still chasing their dragon
endless purgatorial fishing vessel voyage rather
than Heaven and Hell
Gaunt and slouched Uncle saunters around,
rum replaces rotten memories of his sad
Nova Scotian story
Enslaved and chained to this beautiful land
juxtaposed with its rampant poverty and ghettoesque aesthetic
A bearded child who has fallen prey to pothead politics
but maintains solidified elements of the childish
innocence that remains in my memory from five years past
walks to me for conversation
Birthplace of Mother, who fled to
Utah
Arizona
Ottawa
and then for me to be born,
have I completed the cycle and returned
to draw the circle or have I destroyed the escape
and condemned her works, a process that took
decades, by longing to return to Old Sweet Yarmouth?
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