Warmth

room warmed by low watt bulbs,
candles too, upon the floor
as shadows play.
calm creation of vision,
moments of anticipation that
build yearning.
light obscured, then illumination
as form fills the room,
naked flesh exposed.
soft skin tanned and revealing
intimate clefts, erotic motion
while footstep pad to bed.
the crush of feathers
lying side by side,
fingers stroking goosebumps.
caress of tips. eyes closed,
direction driven by quiet moans,
the tuft tugged gently.
smooth limbs held by strong hands
pulled with resistance to
welcome the ritual.
beats build tempo. songs
sing from under bed covers and
time passes in oblivion.
moist with residue, with fond
perspiration. heat resonates
underneath and sticky
a bestowal and whispered affection
to sleeping beauty as
dream of tomorrow begin again.

York Redoubt, Halifax, NS

We arrived at the fort and parked the car. The journey there had been a good one, escaping from the house and heading out of the city along a winding road that took us passed Purcells Cove, lakes, cottages and schools. The air had a crispness to it that hinted at snow and every now and then, a couple of flakes would fall lazily from the sky above. There seemed to be a lot of walkers out today, mostly older couples who were enjoying the first day of the year, people out with their dogs, letting them burn some energy. We locked the car, and walked through the entrance to York Redoubt. The fort had been in use since the 1800s and there were plenty of buildings and earthworks to see. Inside the fort felt like being in a crater. The high banked walls contrasting with the depression that we found ourselves in. Five large cannons stood silently pointing to the sea, cannons that last made themselves heard in a long distant time. We climbed up the steps of one of the banks to absorb the view of the ocean that lay far beneath. It didn't really feel as though we were so high up, but the difference was clear as soon as we looked over the edge. We walked along, talking about the way of life, the kind of people that lived and worked there, what they valued, what they did. Both of us were born in the wrong era. The Victorian days would have suited us more. I think that there would have been a far greater sense of fulfillment, life satisfaction and that instead of taking things for granted, that as life would be harder, it would also feel more like it had been earned. Imagine how the food would have tasted for a soldier about to leave for war, not knowing if he would see his family again. Imagine his children, his wife, working hard and being thankful for every simple meal that they had together. Hands knarled and calloused with labour. Coming home from a hard day and falling asleep in a simple bed with no furnace, no internet, no television. A life more simple, harder, but satisfying. Our tour of the fort itself was nearing its end, we looked hungrily at the ocean below, and the winding near invisible trail leading down to it. The going was steep and snow had begun to fall, covering the rocks and earth with traces of white. Both of us nearly slipped, the footholds icy and occasionally difficult to identify. Cautiously we descended down towards a track which we could see below us, holding on to tree branches, and stepping slowly with bent knees as we neared the road. There were pockets of water and ice that were forming beautiful patterns as the water seeped down the path we were taking, sculptured into the earth itself and enveloping small twigs, lichen and leaves into its frozen smooth surface. We got to the road, and climbed over a small barrier which separated the ridge from the road. Once on the road, we looked in both directions, left, then right, to see what would interest us, and attract us to see more. We have that in common, a sense of adventure, an interest in discovery, in finding new places. Left and right seemed to offer little, we looked down, toward the ocean, and were drawn to it. We found another little used trail that lay hidden among the trees and followed it. The snow was beginning to fall faster, a flurry which had the potential to become something more. Leaves covered the ground here, leaves that were fast being obscured with snow. We nearly slipped a couple of times as we continued downwards, the slope steep and stimulating. About fifteen metres below us, we could see a gravel pathed trail and we headed towards it eagerly. Pushing back branches and driving through thorned bushes we reached the trail. It was beautifully quiet, a light breeze swept through on occasion and the snow would drift up from where it had settled. Water could be heard trickling down the slope, forming ice walls and frozen streams, icicles that stretched far enough to touch the earth itself. It was beautiful, a perfect mix of transparent, translucent and opaque. Underneath my feet, through the ice, I could see the water running by, its movement fast and unimpeded. The trail was very pretty and I would love to visit and explore it further another day. Today, we were drawn to the sea, and so crossing the gravel path, we found a set of worn, moss covered steps leading into the trees. We followed the steps downwards, and after a few metres, it opened out into a view of the rocky beach, and a garrison fort at the waters edge. The landscape was rugged, hard and unwelcoming. To get down to the waters edge, we clambered across large rocks, down slippery earth and underneath the boughs of age old trees. Our descent from the fort of York Redoubt, high above us and out of view, had been an adventure in itself. Now we were by the ocean, a place both of us feel a great affinity with, we looked in different directions, out to see, along the coast line, into the dark water, at our feet and between the rocks.

Tiny little shells lay interspersed on the ground, shells white and light in colour, they had been washed lovingly by the currents and sat shining and smooth waiting for someone to pick them up and take them home. We began putting them in pockets to take back with us, going in separate directions along the rocky coast. We took photographs, pictures of each other, of the landscape, the water and the way we had come. It was a wonderful day. Her company was so treasured, and such warmth filled me as I watched her climbing over large rocks and then looking out to the unknown of the ocean. Her hood up and the fur ring and purple scarf near obscuring her face. Only her eyes and nose were visible. She was beautiful. I turned, and with a feeling of child like curiosity had an urge to clamber up the side of a large boulder, covered in ice and with water trickling down its edges. Finding niches in which to grip my gloved fingers, and then searching for hard, dry parts of the rock, I made my way upwards, another ice wall greeted me and I ran my hands along its smooth surface. I continued upwards, a stream was flowing and the water was covering the dark blackness of the rock. A fallen tree lay across it and I made my way too it, the objective of the quest was to lean against it, one foot either side of the trickle of water, and then look out to the ocean. It felt sheltered up there, as if no snow was falling upon me, and no breeze moved the air. I liked it there, looking out to the Atlantic and letting mind drift with the waves that gentled cast their white horses against the shore. Our time there was nearly over, and we checked the time. We had to be back soon and so silently said our farewells to the ocean, and began the ascent back up to the fort. She led the way, picking a path between rocks, between trees, and at steady pace heading back to where we parked the car. Before we reached the gravel trail, a concrete structure appeared from within the trees, overgrown and dark, it encouraged us to step inside. One day, perhaps long ago, this building would have performed a duty, a function, people would have worked there, perhaps slept there, ate there, and talked there. It seemed strangely sad to see the building so changed, the floor was green with moss, the windows empty. It felt like a shell, as if the life had been sucked from it and the walls were all that remained. We stepped inside. A set of steps lead upwards, but the ceiling blocked progress, as if at one time there had been a second storey. The walls had occasional graffiti on them, but didn't have the dark slogans often seen inside abandoned structures. Perhaps few people knew of it, few people had been inside it. After taking a couple of photos, we passed around the walls of the building and back on to the trail. We looked around to search for the best way back up to the fort. She turned right and spotted a trail leading up and back in the direction of York Redoubt. The incline was good, our lungs began to work as we set a rhythm, a pace as feet stepped between the roots of the trees and the occasional frozen puddle. I could feel the muscles in my legs, tense and relax as we progressed. I was really enjoying it, being outdoors, the walking, the new sites, the feeling of being alive in the world. It was the first day of January, 2010, and the world felt quiet, subdued, but wonderfully real. We arrived back at the fort, the grass covered with snow, the car white, windows obscured. We opened the doors, got inside, our coats moist with snow. The return journey to our house was slower, the weather worsened and the snow came with greater intensity. As we came closer to the city of Halifax, my mind drifted, I imagined being back there in the summer, with warm air and cloudless skies, sitting with her under the trees, night starting to fall, a sleeping bag, good books, lying in each others arms, falling asleep to the gentle lap of the waves. Already, writing this I am longing to be back there with her, to share those moments and feel alive.

Eastern Passage

Marigold was happy at the prospect of a drive outside the city and her engine burbled gleefully as I sped along Pleasant St and through Shearwater towards Eastern Passage. The day was an unpredictable one, grey, sleet, rain, snow, wind and occasionally the odd glimmer of sunshine and blue sky bursting from within the heavy cover of grey cloud. A regular Nova Scotian day. The van radio had been stuck on a light rock station for a few months now, and the merry melody of Roy Orbison added to the mood of adventure. I had never been to Eastern Passage even though it was only a few kilometres down the road. The main thoroughfare eventually became Shore Rd, and there were fewer and fewer cars to accompany me on the journey. Marigold passed by rows of cottages, houses and the occasional mansion. A spatter of small stores and supermarkets appeared in front and gradually disappeared in the rear view mirror. Soon, all that could be seen were the houses on the left, and the wide expanse of the ocean on the right. I pulled over for a moment, to admire the view and snap off a couple of memory lane photos. I watched the rhythmic waves make their way towards the shore, casting small cascades of white foam as they broke upon the rocks. The colours were tinged with a grey melancholy, as if even the earth itself was trying to find cover from an expected snow storm. The waves gradually became larger, more powerful and impressive. Far in the distance, the shape of trees and outcrops became obscured as the rain and sleet began to build. I moved into the passenger seat, opened the window and breathed in the cold hard air. The heating in the van was non-existent, and the chilly air crept inside and clung to my fingers. I twisted the camera left and right, searching for interesting views and then captured them. Once saved to memory, I rolled up the window, changed back to the drivers seat and then putting Marigold into gear, I pulled back onto the road and continued through the village. I drove as far as I could, toward the golf course and then stopped when the road ended. A couple of surfers were preparing themselves for time on their boards. Their preparation almost ritual like as they donned dry suits, got their boards ready and then made their way down towards the waters edge. I watched them stand looking out across the water, gauging the force, the waves, the surge and building their anticipation.
The van was getting cold. Marigold doesn't like the cold much and bitches about it whenever possible. Realising that the prospect of having a van with no heat, no power and no will to return home, I revved up the engine, did a u-turn and then started back for Eastern Passage and Cow Bay Road. Considering the wind and weather, there were a few people out on the road, walking towards the village centre. Hardy people. I wondered where they were going, what they were going to do and if they were cold or not. I was beginning to feel it, and I was sat in the cab of the van, so I'm sure that they were either well insulated (which I was not), or that they didn't feel the cold the way I did.
I pulled into Cow Bay Road and began the winding course that would take me passed Rainbow Haven and numerous inlets, small shorelines and countless trees, stripped of all leaves by the winter. The scenery was quiet, damp and rugged. Every now and then a few rays of sunshine would break free from the cloud and illuminate the land with colours of warmth. Then they would disappear again, the view would change back to the mix of dulled fall and winter shades. Beautiful but somehow sad. I slowed the engine, cruising along at a slow pace to ensure I could take in as much of the passing terrain as I could. The ocean lay to the right, and between the trees, the hills and isolated houses I could see the white water of waves and spray build, roar and crash in cyclical fashion. Black dots of surfers moved backwards and forwards, waiting, searching for the rising water that would let them know the time to hop up on their boards and begin their journey towards the land, powered forwards by the strength of the sea. I drove onwards, up and down small hills and then the ocean left my view. I turned onto Bisset Road, the road that I knew would lead me back towards Cole Harbour, and Main Street which I would take on the way home. Bisset Road seemed long and empty, without the sea view, the scenery rolled by as Marigold hungrily chewed through the kilometres, winding effortlessly round curves. I was happy, I had not seen the ocean for a couple of months or so, and the short time spent watching the waves was calming. I drove with contentment, the van happy, the elements contesting gleefully and me sat in the driver seat viewing and feeling it all. As I eventually pulled back onto Main Street and started for home. I breathed in deep, a long sigh of satisfaction. I will return to Eastern Passage, to see it again. Hopefully when it is basking in sunshine and the ocean reflects the sky in shades of perfect blue. I look forward to driving there again and I'm sure that Marigold does too.

Sunny Day

sun shines out in a sky coloured blue
the grey blizzard gone for a while,
cold surrounds, but fresh kind chill
that livens the soul, and sharpens
the breath envelopes while we wrap
in layers of increasing thickness.
the walk is welcome, the air cleans
lungs with its cool crisp taste
the clouds of our breath disappear
like incense in the wind.
marvel at the beauty, the bewildering
variety of life, its pulse.
those around amble on, they pass by
and continue on their way, shoulders
shrugged against the season.
what thoughts fill their time, what
life do they lead, what are their
dreams, what hope do they hide.
is it the same day as mine.
watching sun pass to moon, day to night
beauty pass by and all feel sublime.

While you Sleep

In the morning haze
beams light your soft shine
they fill you with warmth
and colour your aura azure

Your steady sleeping breath
touches my ear, the rhythmic
rise and fall give me peace
Eyelids closed, calm, kind.

My fingertips glide upon
Your exposed thigh, wrapped
across the thick feather duvet
Golden light stirs like ripples.

Tempted to wake you from slumber
I restrain, allow my eyes to
Absorb your slumbering stillness
A picture etched forever.

I breathe your breath, join
Your motion. Sense your world
Immerse myself in the current.
Control seeps away.

Soft voices from far away
Echo in thought, joined memory
Laughter, eyes shining.
Sun on our skin.

You wake, I open my eyes
A kiss from your lips on my
Forehead. A glow of love.
Outside the sky is blue.

Winter

The darkness closes in
like the rising of the tide
Bringing with it a deparate cold chill

With a wind of ice needles
Stabbing relentlessly. Stealing
Breath and will.

It burns my skin, my eyes, my being
I scream. Lungs ripped by the melancholy
Freeze until voice is soundless.

trying to hide beneath facades, ballroom
masks of elegance. The raw texture of
my flesh remains exposed.

I yearn, call on bended knee. A prayer
Unanswered. Abandoned. Devoid
Of all that was once abundant.

So little strength. So little more.
Beckoning the onset of future unknown
To guide me towards the common goal.

Hand becomes fist, muscles tensed to
strike out, to inflict and relish.
Taste the blood on my lips.

Whirlwind of punished energy
Throws me out, spits far.
Soul cracked, chipped, a yard sale china plate.

Untitled

In the dark the hum of morning stirs
The chill air settled crisp upon the grass
Inside all is silent, close, calm.
Eyes still red with night awake in
The blackness again and again.
Thoughts freely miander
Across plains of sleep and consiousness
Firing in sporadic motion like a
Shoal of fish.

Engines purr below, work to be done
as sleepy drivers hold near their Tims.
Up here the world still rests. Missing their
Company. Scribbled thoughts a happy
Substitute. Bringing closer the warmth
Of body and comfort of breath.
Dreams of lighter days, days of sun that
seem long gone.

I am the Leaves

i am the leaves
i am the wind that blows between them
and carries them to the ground
i am the lush grass that they fall upon.
i am the earth that lies beneath and
the water that nourishes it
i am outside and inside
i am above and below
i breathe, absorb and exhale
my air belonging to all
i am a beacon, a fire that leaps
i am everything and nothing in the same moment
i speak without words and hear without hearing
i see with eyes closed
i give and accept.
i create. i love. i live

View from the Roof

Sun coloured chill as the wind whips the air
I stand facing west and smoke without care.
The burnished bronze of sunsets share
Entices me further, to go beyond there.

Ash drops to the ground and dissolves into dust
I ponder upon an image of trust
The choice is mine, to do what I must
And play the game, stick, twist or bust.

The orb disappears under the earth
Completing its cycle of day, night rebirth
I stand a while longer, a smile curled in mirth
as I contemplate all, and what its all worth.

Daydreams of beauty and hope by my side
A journey onwards taken at stride
Hands interlinked, and on for the ride
Across distant lands, rivers and tide.

I finish the butt, crush the ember that dies
Step back inside and close my eyes
Allow sleep to come and welcome its ties
And dream to wake with tranquil sunrise.

Cheeky Chappie & Sexy Lass

Cheeky chappie slaps his thigh
and says with face a smile
"come sit by me and let us see
if we can't fondle a while"
Sexy lass with eyes a rolling
steps up to the bloke,
looks him in his face and says
"you make me want to choke".
"aw, hun" says he, with gleeful mirth
"don't play so hard to get,
as what I have and what you want
are in my pants I bet"
says she to he, "just fuck right off,
you're nothing but a freak.
That is not what I'm looking for,
you know not what I seek."
The cheeky man he laughs out loud
"I guess I'm out of luck,
perhaps a fondle is no good...
but hey, how about a fuck?"
The response from her was to the point
Frank and very blunt.
"Piss off you twat, let that be that,
I'm only after cunt".