Writing Poetry at Twillingate Newfoundland

I’ve been preoccupied with all things Newfoundland as of late, and for good reason. 

My evenings are being spent with Wayne Johnston’s, The Son of a Certain Woman. In my mind, I’m scrambling up Signal Hill or navigating the steep incline of a St. John’s street.

I recently had the good fortune to meet Michael Winter and his book, Minister Without Portfolio rests on the nightstand, next in line.

Had I not visited The Rock, I might not understand the affection that people bear for this province.  The landscape is breathtaking at every turn.  The warmth and hospitality of the people is legendary, and I will tell you, these claims are warranted.  I received an invitation to a kitchen party and a community hall music evenings.  A lovely couple invited me to their home for coffee one evening and regaled me with a story that involved the misguided judgment of a teenage boys, a late night return a fishing trip, and a set of relieved  parents.

DSC_0831 DSC_0822

Armed with an appreciation of history and an imagination sparked by a visit to Ferryland , I curated memories via camera and pen. 


DSC_0129 Crows Head Newfoundland

Later, I took the short drive from Twillingate to Crows Head and hiked to Nanny’s Hole, where I discovered yet another breathtaking vista. 



When I stood looking out on the Atlantic, and wondered how many women had stood on this very spot, wishing for the return of a husband or lover.  This poem was the product of my musing.

Come Back
Rocky arms reach out
Into the clamour
Of surf and spray
To pull back
A wayward lover
Too far from home
And tossed about
Upon the rolling swell
She tends the hearts of women
Left waiting upon The Rock
Bound up in mossy lace
Edged in froth and foam
She sees their prayers
Whisked out to sea
On salty winds
And tides of tears
Come back to me, my lover
That I might warm you through
And gently moan
Into your ear
The comforts of hearth
And home
I’ll sing of oath and ardour
That bind you to my soul
Stay near to me, my lover
And call this place your home
I will cleave unto you more surely
Than the waves unto the shore
And pray my pull
Is stronger upon you
Than the temptress
Far out at sea
By Gwen Tuinman