I have always loved and adored the written word, and poetry in particular has always felt very moving; like the image of tall grasses dancing in the wind.
It has been a number of year since I was so very fortunate to visit my Uncle Paul at his cottage on Chandos Lake, Ontario. While I was growing up in Alberta as a young girl, he had already been living in the St. Catherine’s area, so I wasn’t able to see him often. But when I moved to Ontario many a moon ago, I would visit when I could, and wait with bated breath as I clung to the words he shared of his youth or quietly ponder life as we stared out over the lake in silence. His blue eyes, so reminiscent of my mom’s would sparkle with mischievousness as he relived his tales, and I would feel a special connection to home. I don’t recall sharing my love of poetry with him, but I remember what a kind and loving gesture it was when he gifted me this book, and how he instinctively knew I would cherish it. Unfortunately, he is no longer with us, but I will always look back with fondness and gratitude for those moments in time I was able to spend with him.
Photo Challenge #3
Below is a poem from this book, written by Norah M Holland, a poet from Collingwood, Ontario. I thought this fitting, in my melancholy moment recalling memories of Uncle Paul… and seeing as our sweet Oreo (who sadly is also no longer with us) would accompany both Big D and I on our trips to the lake, it seemed applicable.
The Little Dog-Angel
High up in the courts of Heaven to-day
A little dog-angel waits;
With the other angels he will not play.
But he sits alone at the gates;
‘For I know that my master with come,’ says he:
‘And when he comes he will call for me.’
He sees the spirits that pass him by
As they hasten towards the Throne.
And he watches them with a wistful eye
As he sits at the gates alone;
‘But I know if I just wait patiently
That some day my master will come,’ says he.
And his master, far on the earth below,
As he sits in his easy chair,
Forgets sometimes, and he whistles low
For the dog that is not there;
And the little dog-angel cocks his ears,
And dreams that his master’s call he hears.
And I know, when at length his master waits
Outside in the dark and cold
For the hand of Death to ope the gates
That lead to those courts of gold,
The little dog-angel’s eager bark
Will comfort his soul in the shivering dark.
"smackiland" & beyond 