PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

You can smell the goats

down on the slopes

of Warburton-Pike

Musky-mating

kids bleating

eating spring shoots-

those precipice offerings

of a rock

atop the rock

I call my own.

Koolman Island,

the Tseycum said

I call it Saturna

my sunny-sloped refuge.

The goats traverse

her lightly,

their shaggy coats

conglomed in clumps

of muck

and shit,

million year old earth,

bramble burrs,

and mother’s milk.

The sky is heaven open

blue and smelling

of Garry oaks,

wild mint,

and my own damn sweat.

The islands below-

all the names and peoples and trees

of my youth-

suddenly naked-

yet the expanse of

water,

Pender’s shoals

and Saltspring’s Tuam

remind me

remind me.

One day it will all-

the Tsawout said-

sink back into the sea.

And the earth

will grumble low

her thanks

for the mother returning.

I watch the goats

of Mt. Warburton-Pike

take careful  steps

to avoid falling

back to earth.