Poet

Behind a plough of words
the poet drives a furrow
that is not straight.

Phrases swoop and float
as an eagle soars in a sky
with no horizon.

Phrases hover,
trace snow flurries
through willows at the Inlet’s edge.

Words drift as morning mist
on my window pane
in each whisper of wind.

Haunting every thought
I breathe.

Brown’s Inlet, Ottawa
1980