North Ontario

The movement of the water in the break
Below my boat that cuts into the gleam
That flashes on the surface of the lake
Reminds me of my presence in the dream
That is the sparking sun that lots its light
Or is the swaying tree that croons its song
Or is the bird or fish at play or fight
Within the healthy show of life’s fit throng.
But textured with this life is death’s display
On every branch and needle of a pine
For dappled with the greens are shots of grey
That mark its life and gradual decline.
I’ve found a lucky place to drop my bait
And catch some life before it grows too late.