War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele

to the falls


I run through forest into quiet dusk,
trace the shore, gun metalic in last light,
through stands of cedar, red arbutus,
Douglas firs, salal’s creeping luxury;
war ticks war tocks as I foot duff, leap rocks,
my muscles tuned for frag vest and helmet;
the lagoon’s impossible peace, cross-haired,
sited within me as I cross fallen logs,
slippery from heavy snow, rain, the fat creek.
I hear the fall’s engine ten minutes away—
earthquake, truck, Hercules— race the sunset
to the Sitting Lady, see her burka
of cold white water, hear great horned owls;
then turn to take the darkening path. Back home.



1 Comment (Closed)

Douglas Hill

I think the photos (Jan 26) clarify the need for a few adjectives here to intensify the visceral elements.

Jan 26 2009 · 16:32

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled to the falls. It was posted here on January 14, 2009.

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