Archive for the ‘along the shore’ Category
goslings
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.
~
~
~
~
~
Copyright Jane Tims 2017
contemplation
contemplation
~
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
~
~
Copyright Jane Tims 2015
along the lake shore
~
shore verbs
~
water simmers at the edge
waves lounge on the shore
discuss the scudding clouds
~
red pine
catches wind
with sticky fingers
~
violets nod
trout lilies tire
fringed loosestrife
hangs its yellow head
~
a spring leaps from the hillside
~
~
~
Copyright Jane Tims 2015
walk on the shore
~
ignition
Sea-rocket (Cakile edentula Hook.)
~
clumps of Sea-rocket
are splashes of lime on sand
missiles from lavender flowers
~
pepper to tongue
pungent breath of Cakile
cardamom and caraway
~
flavour our laughter
giggles of gulls cross sober sand
intervention in sluggish lives
~
launches from Cape Canaveral
moon-walking on the beach
splash-downs in Sargasso Seas
~
most days are moth-eaten –
paper cuts, missives, e-mails to answer
problems, resolutions without teeth
~
the seawind smooths its sand
begs for someone to take a stick
scratch out a love song
~
~
~
Copyright 2015 Jane Tims
summer on the river
~
~
drinks on the patio
~
the setting spins
on the river
golden while the mayflies dance
with gilded wings
~
this is conversation!
a cold glass
singing ice
white wicker
umbrella shade
the hills
wistful beyond the gauze
of mayfly dancing
~
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
~
I listen
with a nod of my head
a flutter of my hand
the corners of my mouth lift
to smile
~
my ears and eyes
have better things to do
~
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
~
liquid on water
~
~
~
Published as ‘drinks on the patio’, Pottersfield Portfolio 17 (3), Spring 1997.
Copyright 2015 Jane Tims
harvesting colour – Sea Lavender
~
~
~
Sea Lavender
Limonium Nashii Small.
1.
bunch of lavender, dry
picked at the edge
of the sea
2.
at high tide, overcome
by salt water, linear
leaves buffeted
as rags, tattered purple papers
echoed in oil-slick
mirrors of foam
3.
on-shore breeze, stiff
sprays of Sea Lavender
tremble
~
~
Published as ‘Sea Lavender’, Canadian Stories 17 (99),October/November 2014
Copyright 2014 Jane Tims
aromatic spring
~
meadow aromatic
~
ozone lightning, late
waters cede, shoots
of cattail merge
end of day, end of June
fireflies, mosquito nights
~
lake-land meadow seeps
wetland meets nostril
marsh musk percolates
half sour, half sweet
methane ooze, decay
~
damp fiddleheads unfurl
bird beaks simmer
in duckweed soup
skin of salamander, frog
steeplebush, meadowsweet
~
angels crave human years, allow
their pores release, scent imitates
reek of sweat, of work
tears mingle with perfume
aftershave and powder
~
~
~
Copyright 2014 Jane Tims
California #3 – the Pacific Ocean
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.
~
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!
~
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!!!!
~
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.
~
~
~
~
~
~
Copyright 2013 Jane Tims
by the frozen lake, next year
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.
~
~
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…
~
~
~
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?
~
Copyright Jane Tims 2012