(LYRIC PROSE)
TEMPLATES
VIRGINIA BOUDREAU
TEMPLATES
VIRGINIA BOUDREAU
Hackmatacks heavy with dew hover on the edge of the wood as if a mother's arm, unseen, holds them back from the road. The sodden haze on soft green needles softens edges and the whole thicket is silvered. A bullfrog croaks from a mirror caught in a tangle of alders and the last furred lupine pods. The morning, barely glazed, draws its breath.
Across the way, sky seems to meld with the bay. Only movement is the barest ripple outward as cool water brushes ribbons of eel grass. A single gull floats near an outcrop of granite and closer, a blue heron picks its halting way through the shallows. I think of Dottie, a much beloved wife, mom, and neighbour whose gentle spirit was so enmeshed in this Villagedale landscape. She died yesterday.
As I walk along, I can just discern her blue farmhouse in the distance. A thin line of smoke plumes from the chimney and mingles with flustered cloud. Last night's crescent moon faints close to the horizon. I imagine Stanley in the kitchen, his large hands angling birch logs onto the fire, his oatmeal bubbling on back of the stove, and all that wordless yearning.
Soon I will pass red roses rioting over the picket fence he built on the corner of their driveway paved with crushed mussel shells. I hear a woodpecker knocking at the same bleached pole it seems to visit every morning about this time. Everything is redolent with wet evergreen and the honeysuckle that runs slipshod through the ditches. I breathe in.
Steps slow as the side verandah comes into view. How many times have I passed Dottie, hanging the wash or sitting in her padded lawn chair? I know she won’t be there but can’t help looking for the arm raised in greeting, the sweet smile splitting her weathered face. Often, she had a bowl of shelled peas or hulled berries on her lap. Sam, the chocolate lab, was always sprawled at her slippered feet. Now bewildered, he raises his head and his soulful eyes follow me for a minute before he settles back on his outstretched paws.
Light glints off orderly rows in the back garden. A crow launches from meandering branches of white rambler. Silky petals shake loose and flurry to shorn lawn. Black wings rise and are joined by another set. They glide over the fields, raucous chatter, for the moment, subdued. Later, their silhouettes will create shadows of flickering movement on the ground.
Now, it is enough to watch them climb. I feel her here, overseeing the homestead, the encroaching forest, the salt marsh embracing Barrington Bay. Steadfast against the moving tides, it glitters in the gathering brilliance.
Across the way, sky seems to meld with the bay. Only movement is the barest ripple outward as cool water brushes ribbons of eel grass. A single gull floats near an outcrop of granite and closer, a blue heron picks its halting way through the shallows. I think of Dottie, a much beloved wife, mom, and neighbour whose gentle spirit was so enmeshed in this Villagedale landscape. She died yesterday.
As I walk along, I can just discern her blue farmhouse in the distance. A thin line of smoke plumes from the chimney and mingles with flustered cloud. Last night's crescent moon faints close to the horizon. I imagine Stanley in the kitchen, his large hands angling birch logs onto the fire, his oatmeal bubbling on back of the stove, and all that wordless yearning.
Soon I will pass red roses rioting over the picket fence he built on the corner of their driveway paved with crushed mussel shells. I hear a woodpecker knocking at the same bleached pole it seems to visit every morning about this time. Everything is redolent with wet evergreen and the honeysuckle that runs slipshod through the ditches. I breathe in.
Steps slow as the side verandah comes into view. How many times have I passed Dottie, hanging the wash or sitting in her padded lawn chair? I know she won’t be there but can’t help looking for the arm raised in greeting, the sweet smile splitting her weathered face. Often, she had a bowl of shelled peas or hulled berries on her lap. Sam, the chocolate lab, was always sprawled at her slippered feet. Now bewildered, he raises his head and his soulful eyes follow me for a minute before he settles back on his outstretched paws.
Light glints off orderly rows in the back garden. A crow launches from meandering branches of white rambler. Silky petals shake loose and flurry to shorn lawn. Black wings rise and are joined by another set. They glide over the fields, raucous chatter, for the moment, subdued. Later, their silhouettes will create shadows of flickering movement on the ground.
Now, it is enough to watch them climb. I feel her here, overseeing the homestead, the encroaching forest, the salt marsh embracing Barrington Bay. Steadfast against the moving tides, it glitters in the gathering brilliance.
Virginia said: "I’ve realized over time that nature inspires my writing more than any other single factor. Walking alone allows my thoughts to unravel and process the happenings in my life at any given time. The combination of both forces together have often helped me find the words and medium for the emotion at hand."
Virginia Boudreau lives in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, where she works as a Learning Disabilities Specialist. She is the mother of two grown children.
