W.B. Yeats

"We can make our minds so still that beings gather round us,that they may see.It may be their own images, and so live for the moment with a clearer, perhaps a fiercer life because of our quiet"

W.B.Yeats

Wild Life

the peoples along the bay of Fundy feed the deer , growing up there in the 50's it was more a matter of putting food on the table,work has become more easier to obtain in the surrounding city centers,like Moncton,Halifax and St.John.

My Grandson, Liam in the Waters

Blackberry Pickin

Blackberry-Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfulls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not. 

Seamus Heaney

Submitted: Wednesday, December 28, 2011

On Brier Island hed of Fundy Bay off the headwaters of Bay of Maine.

Estuaries of ideas stream in and flow out, while imaginations perforate the expanse consciousness

So now Im city bound
All so far away from my beloved birds, mountains and rivers
Not one day since we came together have I looked at another

Not one night have I moved where
Your curves so warm gather
Feel you silence out over the waves
Of life reaching reaching reaching
Into the roots of the trees
Deep into boughs of the trees

As high as a thousand tamberians  can sound up over the hills
The quickening flow of skirts cooling
The faces of old men
Old men cooling the loins of young women
Young women making bread for old women
Old women milking cows for the babies of the world

One night on the road a few hours out from Folly Mountain sitting in the quiet of the night.Caithleen Carter Steeves