Monday, April 28, 2008

The Continuous Poem - Day-dreaming in Algonquin Park

You can't help being seized by day-dreaming and daylight in Algonquin Park.

Algonquin has an enigmatic, hidden rhythm, much similar to a buried drum punctuating a march that eludes the ear but submerges all other senses in its stride.

Stop and listen to it - if you can.
Stop and see if you can grope at the menacing magic of Algonquin that makes me want to hold my breath, keep silent and walk on tip-toes.

Let me see if I can describe what I feel, what I dream of, what I am afraid of in Algonquin Park.

It's a spell: a weaving and twisting of meaning that I cannot decipher since it hides deep in the veins of the leaves. It's a spell that glistens with the drizzle dissolving in the lake, and turns me deaf to the resonance of reality.

It's the thrill of Algonquin: a distant whistling, the rustling of the wind, the gliding of a color that changes petals abruptly in the sword dance of a chilly sun ray.

Algonquin is witchcraft in greenery, alert and mysterious; it looks at me from afar, with a myriad of drowsy eyes, through swirls of grey clouds and mosaic mists.

The unseen eyes of Algonquin scrutinize me, keen and intelligent, curious and indolent. They wait patiently for me to make a mistake under the thrall of the Algonquin day.

And I make a lot of mistakes while I am in this park - it is impossible not to fall prey to the beauty of Algonquin.

The beauty of Algonquin traps me, strips me of my identity and mercilessly crushes me in its claws.

I finally let my guard down.

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