Continue reading “Curating Wonder — A Newfoundland Fishing Cove”
What plight awaits the town that relies on one central employer to sustain its economy?
Several small towns across North America know the answer to this question. They’ve experienced the years of bounty followed by the years of hardship after the last whistle blew and the company doors close . Continue reading “When the Last Whistle Blows”
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.
Armed with an appreciation of history and an imagination sparked by a visit to Ferryland , I curated memories via camera and pen.
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
