She Came From Dark Cove
She came from Dark Cove on the Newfoundland shore,
where the fisher folk fight with the sea.
Her grandfather’s wife was an Indian squaw,
and her wandering led her to me.
Below the Cairngorms in old grey stone Braemar,
where the salmon they leap in the Dee,
we met one summer in the blue, smoky bar,
at the hotel we worked, to be free.
Free as the falcons on the mountains we saw,
as the deer who ran wild through the glen.
We found a heaven, but turned back at the door,
and it never will open again.
I brought her feathers and deer antlers to draw,
and she told me of lands over sea,
of pots she had made and of paintings in store
of winged spirits who lived in a tree.
See her by rivers, winding green willow wands,
drawing white eagles, wolf cubs and bears.
She came to my cell and she unthonged my bonds,
as she quietly led me upstairs.
She may be a wife with a baby by now,
five years gone since I last saw her face,
or in a canoe, slowly wondering how
to sail back to her grandmother’s race.
Me I am happy she came my wall at all,
I still see her by moon and by star.
May the glad laughter of waters in fall
echo round you wherever you are.