Morning in the Station

At the centre of Barnabas Landing stands a majestic edifice. 

In the expansive lounge, Eva plays the grand piano.

In dawn’s dense fog, this is a cozy sanctuary: 

infused with susurrations, warmed by the fire 

that crackles in the welcoming hearth in the corner.

But when the fog burns off, the glass-walled space

is glorious, magical. The Sound mesmerizes

with its gentle, lazy, hypnotic waves.

Mountains protect coves and inlets, 

creating a peaceful little world, perfectly sized. 

Frost-dusted peaks extend heavenward, singing 

softly with radiant grace to the awakening sky.  

Clouds float up to kiss peaks. 

Silver and gossamery, 

playful mists breathe slowly over trees. 

Edges swirl like the hair of undulating mermaids.

A ferry crosses the passage; in its wake, 

more energetic waves ripple toward shore. 

Deceptively flat, they woosh triumphantly,

crash on rocks.

Black-capped chickadees rest their wings on the fence,

waiting and watching for breakfast. The piano 

in its cavernous concert chamber cheers

joyfully: the beautiful, holy morning 

has broken.