The following post was submitted by Steve Horel after a recent visit to the Abbey. It is part of a collection of poems that I am posting that deal with the Comox Valley region. Although this is part of the Queen Charlotte Islands, the feeling is still the same.
June 9, 2019
Area 63 Moresby Island (now Gwaii Haanas)
The top ridge is covered with standing timber-
too scrawny too steep too far from that last setting to log.
looking like a Mohawk hair cut
a highway for deer, bear, home for near extinct mosses
haven for peregrine falcon.
The sidehill, a mass of stumps
sharp busted up limbs.
grades down thru several switchbacked logging roads to Sewell Inlet,
thick Pacific fog below us
the steep hump of Louise Island so close
at first I thought only a river lay beneath
that white foam blanket.
The brooding shoulders of Talunkwan Island and the Tangil,
descending peaks…Tanu, Kunga and those jagged rocks in the distance
the Lost Islands, the summit of Lost Mountain no doubt
beyond which nothing is found only the mainland.
The morning is cool
our breaths damp annoying white threads as we breathe.
coughing creates staccato clouds soon sucked into the pervasive moisture.
the land drips even when the sky doesn’t.
We’re climbing before the sun hoists its blast over Talunkwan
and halfway to the timber someone yells
“Here Comes The Sun” to an old Beatles tune.
We all stop.
some hung over brush arms spread like scarecrows
some caught twisted between trees dangling on a caulk
looking like machines run out of gas
like rag dolls suddenly collapsed.
In this country which seems to know no sun
the sun announces its arrival on rainbow runners-
great circles of blue and red throbbing around the hot gold core.
the fog heated rushes uphill – millions of tiny water prisms
catch the light in waves.
There is absolutely no question in anybody’s mind who’s running this energy show.
Jerked back into gear by a rising tide of responsibility
or stupidity or some perverse survival instinct
we move on
working, “re”foresting the manged slope
while below us the topsoil bleeds brown into the inlet.
I feel like I’m on the very edge
of the world
like I’ve been pushed