Her Majesty’s Royal Navy
April 17 2010


A quirk of topography.
Glaciers, receding
that carved into rock
scraped out the ancient soil.
And where the lake strategically narrows
funnelling the force of air.
So the prevailing wind pounds through
like a North Atlantic gale.

Against which these majestic trees
have stood their ground.
White pine
surviving wind and bugs, and clear-cuts
from the days before steam.
Their massive trunks lean leeward,
a gently windswept curve
formed by centuries of steady pressure.
Like a main mast, a mizzen
they are true,
prized by Her Majesty’s Royal Navy
for their height and strength.
And when the wind stiffens
I see a great schooner, under full canvas
heeling, groaning
holding its own.

Today
the elastic spruce were flattened,
poplars’ lofty branches snapped
like kiln-dried twigs —
too big for their roots
the rot within.
Canvas awnings, with festive stripes
went front to back,
like inside-out umbrellas.
Plastic lawn chairs cart-wheeled by
going helter-skelter.
And torn screens, left flapping
the fence, sand-blasted
by hurricane force.

But the trees stood, as always,
tired needles weeded-out
dead branches cleansed.

Tiny pine have taken root
scattered in circles around them,
already learning to bend.
So the whole place seems to lean downwind —
the main mast a tower of strength,
my land
a ship under sail.