nichepoetryandprose

poetry and prose about place

Archive for the ‘along the shore’ Category

goslings

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On our drive last weekend to the Spednic Lake area, we saw this sight along the road by North Lake …. three Canada geese and their goslings …. two rather unevenly sized families.

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Copyright Jane Tims 2017

Written by jane tims

June 16, 2017 at 7:05 am

contemplation

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contemplation

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still

as though cast 

in bronze

mounted on rock

she watches

a strider

skate across

the surface

tension of water

ponders

his agility

the soundless stretch

of the meniscus

dimples on the water

thoughts

barely touch

the shallows

faded as the gentle

brush

of patina

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Copyright Jane Tims 2015

Written by jane tims

August 12, 2015 at 7:00 am

along the lake shore

with 4 comments

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along the lake shore

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shore verbs

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water simmers at the edge

waves lounge on the shore

discuss the scudding clouds

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red pine

catches wind

with sticky fingers

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violets nod

trout lilies tire

fringed loosestrife

hangs its yellow head

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a spring leaps from the hillside

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Copyright Jane Tims 2015

Written by jane tims

July 27, 2015 at 7:14 am

walk on the shore

with 2 comments

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ignition

Sea-rocket (Cakile edentula Hook.)

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clumps of Sea-rocket

are splashes of lime on sand

missiles from lavender flowers

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pepper to tongue

pungent breath of Cakile

cardamom and caraway

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flavour our laughter

giggles of gulls cross sober sand

intervention in sluggish lives

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launches from Cape Canaveral

moon-walking on the beach

splash-downs in Sargasso Seas

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most days are moth-eaten –

paper cuts, missives, e-mails to answer

problems, resolutions without teeth

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the seawind smooths its sand

begs for someone to take a stick

scratch out a love song

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Copyright 2015  Jane Tims

Written by jane tims

June 17, 2015 at 7:35 am

summer on the river

with 4 comments

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St. John River, south of Fredericton

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drinks on the patio

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the setting spins

on the river

golden while the mayflies dance

with gilded wings

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this is conversation!

a cold glass

singing ice

white wicker

umbrella shade

the hills

wistful beyond the gauze

of mayfly dancing

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you are dazzled by the play of sun

and words on water

your voice

your smile

who cares what you are saying

as long as the lines are long

and the tone is light

and the mayflies stir

the air above the river

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I listen

with a nod of my head

a flutter of my hand

the corners of my mouth lift

to smile

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my ears and eyes

have better things to do

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the sunlight slides on cobwebs

spun across the river

our voices slur

while the mayflies dance

the rise and fall

of their glass bodies

and your laughter

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liquid on water

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St. John River, south of Fredericton

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Published as ‘drinks on the patio’, Pottersfield Portfolio 17 (3), Spring 1997.

Copyright  2015  Jane Tims

Written by jane tims

June 15, 2015 at 7:47 am

washday

with 12 comments

A few years ago, we took a vacation to les Îles de la Madeleines, also known as the Magdalen Islands, in the Gulf of Saint Lawrence and part of the Province of Quebec.  We loved the ferry rides to and from the Islands, the endless white sand beaches, the artisans, and the demonstrations of wind sailing.  Most of all, I loved the colourful houses.  I always planned to try to capture the beaches and those houses in a painting.  I finally completed my tryptic called ‘washday #1’, ‘washday #2’ and ‘washday #3’.

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June 9, 2015 'washday#1' Jane Tims

June 9, 2015 ‘washday#1’ Jane Tims

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June 9, 2015 'washday#2' Jane Tims

June 9, 2015 ‘washday#2’ Jane Tims

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June 9, 2015 'washday#3' Jane Tims

June 9, 2015 ‘washday#3’ Jane Tims

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And the three together:

June 9, 2015 'washday'  Jane Tims

June 9, 2015 ‘washday’ Jane Tims

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Copyright  2015  Jane Tims

harvesting colour – Sea Lavender

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Sea Lavender, picked long ago and woven into a wreath

Sea Lavender, picked long ago and woven into a wreath

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Sea Lavender

 

Limonium Nashii Small.

 

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bunch of lavender, dry

picked at the edge

of the sea

 

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at high tide, overcome

by salt water, linear

leaves buffeted

as rags, tattered purple papers

echoed in oil-slick

mirrors of foam

 

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on-shore breeze, stiff

sprays of Sea Lavender

tremble

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Published as ‘Sea Lavender’, Canadian Stories 17 (99),October/November 2014

Copyright  2014  Jane Tims

 

dry Sea Lavender

dry Sea Lavender


 

 

Written by jane tims

October 22, 2014 at 7:18 am

aromatic spring

with 4 comments

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November 9, 2011 ‘Peltoma Lake’ Jane Tims

 

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meadow aromatic

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ozone lightning, late

waters cede, shoots

of cattail merge

end of day, end of June

fireflies, mosquito nights

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lake-land meadow seeps

wetland meets nostril

marsh musk percolates

half sour, half sweet

methane ooze, decay

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damp fiddleheads unfurl

bird beaks simmer

in duckweed soup

skin of salamander, frog

steeplebush, meadowsweet

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angels crave human years, allow

their pores release, scent imitates

reek of sweat, of work

tears mingle with perfume

aftershave and powder

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Oct. 9, 2011 ‘Reeds and reflection’ Jane Tims

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Copyright  2014  Jane Tims

Written by jane tims

June 13, 2014 at 7:32 am

California #3 – the Pacific Ocean

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When I went to California, I wanted to do four things: see my brother and my sister-in-law in their new home, drive over the Golden Gate Bridge, see Star Trek Academy (or its eventual location) and stick my toe in the Pacific Ocean.  The first three were easy, but seeing the Pacific and touching it were two different things.  We saw it almost immediately from the plane.  Then we walked along Fishermen’s Wharf, watched the boats bobbing in the quay, walked among the Bay fish at the Aquarium and travelled on the Bay Cruise around Alcatraz and under the Golden Gate Bridge twice.  Beyond the Golden Gate Bridge, I experienced some of the power of the Pacific Ocean.  As you cross under the Bridge, the water turns very choppy and churns and twists and swells.

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Once we got to Calistoga, my brother gave us his car for the day and my son and I headed across the winding roads of the Calistoga hills.  Thanks to our GPS and my son’s piloting skills, we reached the coast with little problem.  The waves were gorgeous – big white breakers on a blue ocean and a blue sky in the background.  Surfers were riding the biggest of the waves.  However, we couldn’t seem to find a way down to the beach that wouldn’t wreck my knees, so we contented ourselves with the view.  Then we ate at the ‘Tides’ restaurant, at a seat near the window directly over the water.  It was so close we both felt as though we were moving!

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Our last stop was at Goat Rock.  After a snail’s pace and a harrowing descent of very twisty roads, we reached the beach, but after reading the signs (they said it is the most dangerous beach in California for undertows), we decided to content ourselves with walking in the deep sand.   As we turned from the ocean to return to Calistoga, I wondered why I was not disappointed at not getting my feet wet.  The answer … I intend to return again and I’ll poke my toes in then!!!!

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Since my son has all our photos, I will share some photos and my painting of the Atlantic Ocean (Lawrencetown Beach) from my visit this spring with my other brother.

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November 16, 2013  'Lawrencetown Beach, Nova Scotia'   Jane Tims

November 16, 2013 ‘Lawrencetown Beach, Nova Scotia’ Jane Tims

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Copyright  2013  Jane Tims

Written by jane tims

November 22, 2013 at 7:40 am

by the frozen lake, next year

with 12 comments

It’s mild here today and we are expecting lots of snow.  I’m working on my novel, doing edits.

I want this post to include an excerpt from my work, so I have chosen a wintry bit.

In this excerpt, the protagonist, Sadie, and her husband are near the edge of the lake, on the property they have bought.  They’re planning to bring the Landing Church to this location, to build a writer’s retreat.

Sadie’s husband, Tom, isn’t well.  He’s dying.  His way of coping is to be a stoic, to face his death as inevitable, and to plan his wife’s life out for her.  Usually, he talks about what she’ll be doing this time next year.  Until now, he’s refused to include himself in any talk of the future.  But, as the novel progresses, his thinking is changing.

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the frozen lake

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The lake, in the grip of November, had frozen to plates of glass, interrupted by pebbly bands where the wind mixed snow into the surface of the ice.  The distant shore presented itself in silhouette, an indigo strip between the lake and the brighter sky.  The dark images of trees were frozen into the surface of the ice.  The air was crisp, but we sat, as we did in summer, on the bench by the lake’s edge.

‘Next year,’ said Tom,  ‘we’ll clear the ice for skating.  And we’ll build a bonfire, here by the shore.  There’s certainly enough dead wood to fuel it.’

I sat still, watching the lake and thinking about Tom’s words –  ‘next year’ and ‘we’.  These words were so different from what he would have said, even three weeks ago.  Ordinarily, he’d be making plans for me alone.  Ordinarily, he’d have said ’Next year, you’ll clear the ice for skating.’

We sat in silence, as we always did, just watching the lake.  Tom probably didn’t notice how thoughtful I’d become.  I wondered how I’d missed it, this transition from ‘no future’ to ‘plans for tomorrow’.  Plans to be shared by us both.  My hands began to tremble.

To distract myself, I found a flat stone embedded in the frost at my feet.  I stood, moving a little closer to the edge of the lake.  I turned my arm and cradled the stone in my hand.  I pulled my arm back and propelled the stone toward the ice.  It hit with a clear ping and bounced across the surface, leaving a line of clear notes in its wake.  I tried another one.  It sang a semi-tone higher, and the ice vibrated between the crisp air and the ice-cold water below.   Tom bent and loosened another flat stone from the ground.  He stood beside me.  In another minute, the ice was ringing with the song of skipping stones.

We’d soon depleted the shore of every loose flat rock.  The lake was still and silent.  No note remained in its repertoire.  The ice in front of us was littered with flat grey stones. 

‘No skating this year,’ said Tom.  ‘We’ve planted enough trippers to last into next spring.’

We turned from the lake and followed the path back to the field.  As we navigated the alders and rounded a corner, we came suddenly on a sturdy bush of bright red berries.  ‘Look, Sadie.  Winterberry holly,’ said Tom. ‘It usually grows by the lake, but here it is, in our field.  Our very own burning bush.’  

The bush glowed with orange-red berries, set off by bronze-colored leaves, not yet fallen.  In the silver and grey of the thicket, it was a gift…

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bush of winterberry holly

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If you have any comments, good or bad, about this piece of writing, let me know.  Is there anything you don’t understand?  I there anything I could better explain?  Have you ever skipped stones on  the ice of a lake or pond?

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Copyright   Jane Tims   2012

Written by jane tims

December 19, 2012 at 7:46 am

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