Nine Mile Road

He had left the streetcars

And the Volvo ads

The smirking pan-handlers

And flower ladies

The smell of bagels

And urine in subway corners

The cadre of blue suits

And padlocked briefs.

In his forty-fourth year

Of mis-direction.

He bought the camp

With the little green

Patch out front.

Traded dictaphone

For a set of carver's tools

Offered by Willie

For beer money.

Willie, that syllabus

Of Huron lore and images

Three miles down the Road

And closer to Honey Harbour.

Craftsman now

And woodburner

Taking treasured bits

Of Huronia and the bush.

To that flea market

Up Highway sixty-nine.

Bringing harried holidayers

A sense of land and past.

(They thought nothing

Of the artisan's price.)


Wood chopper

Bay boater

Walleye troller

Night sky singer

Campfire dancer

With the west wind


And rock gray

And bush green

With dapplings of birch

And sky blue

And on the move.

Even the driving rain

Had become a welcome guest.

Glenda had balked at the idea

A time apart for re-grouping

They had said.

But she had arrived

Last August.

And the cabin's little kitchen

Had become a sanctuary

Of pots, preserves

And Georgian scenes in oils.

CBC radio reminded them

Of another life
Sounds from across the Dominion.

And political wranglings.

But turn the page.

The music of loons outside

Now the featured performance.


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