Islanders, we lived on shores of dark waters,
Chilly in summertime, cloud-shrouded days,
Passing rain, mists night-rising, few days we
Felt sun-warmth. Sweatshirt clad visitors
asked, “Is it always like this?” fumbling
Between currencies, hard accents in check-
Out lines, then they see weather-worn faces,
Sunburned, muscled hands, lobstermen,
Women in aquaculture, long, cold days on
Pitching Fundy waves.
“No, it’s not always like this,” I replied with
Encouraging smile. “Sometimes worse.”
Marine forecast warned, southerly gale, warm
Air descending on cold waters. That night,
Fog moved in, grey wall bays, coves creeping,
Covering wood-frame wharf-built outports
Poised at water’s edge. By morning, island
Turned grey, mist heavy on winding spruce-
Flanked roads, long lines at ferry terminal,
Visitors in droves escaping dirty weather.
Or so they thought. Overnight, ebb and flow
Of Fundy tides, dark waters built to six-foot
Sea-swells obscured by gauze-thick fog, ferry
Rolling, walking difficult with hand rails, mid-
Bay conditions worsened, local families, old
And young, taking it in stride, most everyone
Keeping to seats, as minutes dragged along.
Thus, as islanders, we take good with bad,
Red-streaked sunrises, sunny breaks, short
Summers, our weather has life of its own.
Thanks for reading.