In the morning,
we came down the steep, winding
hill road into Ingonish.
We thought it was a postcard.
We thought we saw some whales.
We thought, when we looked back and out
and out and out and out and down forever,
that we had found the mouth
of the sleeping
Glooscap.
We thought, when we looked out to sea
that we ought never
come down
to Ingonish.

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett