Homesick

I attempt to change this place into what it is not –
Suburbia to rocks and trees, at least a little spot;
I have some slate, and waterfalls, a pond , and cedar brook,
Some ferns, and moss, and undergrowth, completes the woodland look –

For that his home – it's “bliss” to me with all it represents –
Canoe pulled up, around the fire before we go to tents;
The tarps (old Safeway awnings from the time when I was ten)
Are slung to keep rainwater off – we'd sit there now and then.

We'd read around the campfire, and by candlelight at night,
And sailing in the bay was fun – we had to stay in sight –
One time my brother sailed away – the motor would not start –
One boat a problem that we had – he came back after dark.

There's hills with trees like “mountaintop” just south of Deloraine,
It blends, for that is where we left to get away from pain –
The Mountain kept us through the year until we went back home;
“Unto the hills” my mother sang when for a walk we'd roam.

We used to picnic as a kid in cemetery there;
It quiet was, and spirits lived beneath the tombstones bare;
Then we'd return from lunch to school, ride bikes, and play on swings –
Then summertime would come full-force then we'd camp out and sing.

The Mourning Doves at evening time up in the Cottonwood,
In stillness of the evening soothed our souls – they understood
What it was like, away from home out on the prairie drear –
If I had wings I'd fly away and get away from here.

For people of our homeland turf are ones we care for most;
We want the best to flow to them, to them we raise our toast;
For they're the ones who gave us life, fed Pablum with a spoon;
From them we learned what life was like, a life we'd now resume.

They are my “target market” folk, for them I write and care;
For them I'd in a heartbeat go, to them I'd soon repair;
I have no problem with the folks who live within this town –
It's just it is not home for me, that's why I'm feeling down.

My friend from Scotland went out west to Comox by the sea;
Another friend, a relative, has farm inside BC;
My wife is home, or close enough, why would she move from here?
For then she'd long to move back home and Mourning Dove she'd hear.

I long to go back to the North, at least to Northern Shield;
The prairie is okay I guess, some beauty's in the field;
But we don't live there, city's home – more, rinky-dinky town
That wants to like a city be, but on such life they frown.

So in my yard I have this taste of life – Laurentian Shield –
Canoe is on a rack beside my tent in tiny field;
I've Birch, and moss, and ferns, and rocks, with water running through;
It is not home but brings it close and makes me think of you.

For you're my people, that's what makes the bush-land rich for me;
It's not just bush but social life – where I can just be me;
“To each his own”, “Join in the fun of life here on the rock”
And when there's trouble folks come ’round to sing, help out, and talk.

That's “Church ” for me – a place where we thank God for such a life;
A place where we join hearts and sing through pleasant times and strife;
A place where we can grow out from our former shabby lives
Into a place we'd rather be, where deepest Spirit thrives.

I've not much time left in my life, so this frustrating is;
I do not wish to change these folks, for that is not my biz;
I'd rather move on to some place where I can start again,
And leave this town of dreary life, the scene of so much pain.

As I look out my window now, flood-waters at their peak,
I see the river through the trees, just like the lake I seek;
It stirs my soul, brings longing back, I think I'll wander down
And sit beside our little “lake” before it turns to ground.

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