poetry

CICATRICE

heat waves, extending
glass shrapnel raking the air,
lodging with finality
into the very soul of Halifax

into our heads was engraved a sound
or worse, the silence
buzzing, as do carrion on a day like this
bowing to the chaotic rituals of life

the buildings lay at the feet
of those lucky enough to stand
the war made apparent
subtleties laid aside, corpses now

the cold came,
biting into us, biting into our hope
already crushed, in isolation
even as heroes were born and re-born

nothing can erase this
scarring cataclysmic nightmare
so be cautious to start new beginnings
and forget old friends

A Matter of Time

Ships gliding about gave the war a new glamour,
December’s cold hand slapped beneath all the clamour.
Halifax flourished, for the fighting was fiction,
We made our own living from others’ convictions.

When war came disguised as a friend in the water
No one could predict it would soon be a slaughter.
The Imo and Mont Blanc gave birth to a fire
While voices and flames grew in unison, higher.

For a second the earth took on the form of hell
As death’s grip was made clear by the ringing of bells.
Glass and debris cloaked a mourning city in grey
Even Prince Edward Island had heard far away.

The next day people helped to make reparations
But a snowstorm had come, increasing frustration.
Thus Halifax felt the repercussions of war,
For the enemy found its way onto our shore.