A Grand River Poem

I often find
The Grand River
Running through my mind

As I stop on a Toronto sidewalk
And step to the curb to jay-walk
My eyes dart around on the road ahead
But my mind is on the riverbed

The curb is like the water’s edge
With a bridge of stones to the other side
And a Kingfisher laughing its way down the river
To where the water is deep and wide

But the city’s steel-enforced trees
Have concrete roots and glass bark
And flat roof treetops
Where pigeons are watched
By falcons and hawks

Concrete paths and man-made trees
Make me pause and long to be
Where the owl hoots from the tallest trees
That are a stone’s throw when the river’s low

When the river’s high, it hustles by
And combs the grass on either side
Like market-going neighbours who buy
Every fruit and berry that they can carry

Thinking of where the berries come from
My mind abandons the city’s hum
To where no sounds can be heard
Except for the water, the wind, and the birds

Next to the fields of the neighbouring farm
Down the hill from the big, old barn
The river bends and twists
Where the fishermen’s path cannot be missed

Far from the city’s drone
Under slow-moving water
Beneath a silver-green stone
A crayfish isn’t the only one
Who calls the Grand River home

This entry was posted in Maia.