Honorable Mention 2007 Canadian Christian Poetry Contest (Fall): $25
About this Christian Poet:
Returning from our Sabbatical in France and Japan has put me in a new place, with new routines and many messy house renovations! With my teenage daughter in school for the (almost) first time, I am delighted to have more time to write. I've been honoured to have my work appear in Time of Singing, Esprit, Glad Tidings, Utmost Gallery, Devozine and, publication pending, in Prairie Messenger.
Seasons of an Island Home
Bowen Island, British Columbia
The fog half obscures the buoy, and the outline of the island is
scattered and dull
in the mist as the ferry slows, drops a ramp into place with a clang.
At home, in the valley, sunk in trees and moss and a fine, mizzling rain,
a varied thrush sits in bare, wet branches of the Norway Maple
its orange breast a fiery bud, a promise on the gray branch of this
west coast winter.
From the deck, I spot a movement in the wood. Leaving the cover of the
trees, a doe performs her pas de chat, holds the pose, ears forward.
As delicate as light, she steps
to the lawn, bends to drink from the water bucket beneath the Tree of
Heaven. I wait. And they come, heads held high, one behind the other,
spotted and downy in the early light. Two perfect fawns. God is a
proud father, again.
In billy boots, I come to the compost heap, two bowlfuls of peelings,
eggshells, and rice.
The chickens run to me like children, red feathers soft and bright in
the sun. I tip the bowls, watch them leap into the pile, scratching
and pecking in the dark earth.
Sir Galahad struts about, calling to his girls. Hildegarde's beak
from the loam. I stroke her back. I tell her how beautiful she is.
Hoods pulled up, we walk Mount Gardner Road, down the big hill and out
onto the leaf-strewn dock. We hang over red railings, count starfish
on the pilings, check the height of the tide, climb among slippery
rocks. Down the gangplank, boats bob and bump in the swells, and we
gaze at the Sunshine Coast, green mounds of Hutt island, the wooden
archway near its shores. Noone knows who built it. Maybe it has been
The Langdale ferry is passing.
We wait for its wash to cross the Sound.
How gently it rocks us
in this cradle of the West.
Copyright©2007 by Judith Frost