Posts Tagged ‘fog’
ghost girl
In Fredericton, there is a relatively famous road, called Waterloo Row. It is famous for its beautiful old homes and is featured in the Canadian version of the game Monopoly. For me, the road represents a favorite part of my former morning commute.
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Especially in fog, Waterloo Row presents some lovely vignettes, including ghostly images of the St. John River, with the old bridge, now a footbridge, vanishing into the mist…
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older homes, some of whom are reputed to be haunted…
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and a bench along the river footpath, haunted by a young girl who sat there almost 34 years ago, considering her future…
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I see her sitting there whenever I drive by. On a cool evening in May of 1980, she drove there on her bicycle and watched the river for an hour, thinking about what her life would be. In two months, she would marry, and her life would change in many ways. She thought about this and wondered.
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If I could talk to her, I could answer almost all her questions. I could tell her about her marriage of (so far) 33 wonderful years. I could tell her all about her future husband and amazing son. I could tell her how relaxing it will be to be at home full-time after three decades of work. And I could tell her – the river could never be as beautiful as the sight of our small pond with its stone bench and violet-studded lawn on this day at the end of May, 34 years later.
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Copyright 2013 Jane Tims
abandoned boat
On Monday, we drove to Black’s Harbour. On the new highway, where it crosses the inland dregs of Oak Bay, the ice was broken into big sheets along the shore. There, in the icy debris, was an abandoned fishing boat, a wreck. Although I have never seen it before, it has probably been there a long time.
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Foggy Molly
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she had a sixth sense –
kicked in on a grey day
when mists lobbed across the bow
and thickened her passage
she loved flat water
and a blanket of fog
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she was nervous of a big sea,
preferred to be tied, snug
to the wharf,
to lift and settle,
to lift and settle
moved by the inhalation,
the exhalation
of the tides
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ironic – she broke up
at berth, waiting for a re-fit
smashed by a nor’easter
and cleavers of ice
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Copyright Jane Tims 2013
