Gaspereau

Merrily we row

meandering. Paddling

down-stream snaky Aspy,

autumnal, aspen-groved

desperate habitat.

You scale

a horizontal fall,

aspiring

to former heights,

sparkling scaly stars

along the aster-road.

You were the dark slurry of salt

(poured on wounds!)

that fed the blood

of Caribbean slaves!

Nova Scotia: tiny corner

of the Triangle Trade,

Spirit betrayed!

Debt owed.

Injustice never cured.

Now rum and salt and sugar enslave us.

Trapped in the empty net of our own making,

clear-cut, poison-sprayed,

we drown in aspirations swept away.

Canada aging, dying, river of oil,

torn basket of broken promises,

weary (weir-y) ale-wives ailing

(Cleopatra's asp) Apres moi, quoi?

Our days are measured

by your raspy length,

(Pan's flute, requiem for beauty)

the slippery distance

between life and death,

espoir, last gasp.

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018