Cape Breton

Rusty Anchors, Hidden Coves
Home cooked meals.
Whale cemeteries and wild fed hopes.
Mountain side oceans,
moose bound lands, snake cliff roads
and curfewed towns.
Curfewed by the sun, as it breaks down on the rocks
and leaves the sky purple veiled
morning shadows on the pier.
Curfewed by the wind,
heavy blow for the sails,
with the ocean in its trot,
and the past catching up.
Curfewed by Time,
to the slowest of beats,
clinging on to the Tide,
of a motionless bay.
Curfewed by tradition, the way we do things
Because if its never been done,
the Undone’s a Routine.
Curfewed by the town, because I’m from away,
and the clocks are all different,
their six is our eight.

They all move slow and suffer the syndrom,
of small town folks that harbor small dreams.
And she’s a city girl, wears fancy garments.
She sees the moon yellow silver,
but never sees the rings.
She’s see the sun setting harbor,
but never till it sinks.

They watch it every nite,
painting out different things.

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