Ripples laced with blue and green.

Hulls reflected, quivering.

Trees that cling to crumbling cliffs,

etched by rain and sun and waves.

Tapestries of living rock,

hung beside round, powdering caves;

where birds have nested through all time,

their stains of white a history.

Seals, like logs, along the shore.

Cormorants dive, to catch a fish.

Eagles rise so high and free,

borne by the updraft of the cliffs.

Sun beats on an evening line,

that softens all that you can see;

as slowly we enjoy the scene,

that never, ever seems to change.

How pleasant is this changing land,

that holds us in it’s vibrant grasp.

To quiver like a frightened bird

or fly, to soar to any height?

 
 

David Garlick, Gulf Islands, 1987