A poem about Cape Breton .
Untitled
Lone sentinel on Cape Smokey,
rooted in rock hard ground,
dancer in the wind,
guardian of the north Atlantic.
The distant sound of a fog horn
trembling your limbs,
naked to the cold and wet
of this dark island.
Cries of drowning men
captured by your branches,
drawn from your carved body
by the rosin and the bow.
Knowing its place on the mountian,
the lonely spruce
turns and bows
to its partner the wind.
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