Belle Côte Bog, by Doreen LeBlanc


Belle Côte Bog



Nestled in the dense moss
Hanging by threads
In the squishy spongy bog
The ripe fruit
Coated in a
Purple misty fog
Turning bright
Cranberry red
From the warmth
Of my cold fingers



By the Wharf


I stand at the wharf
As the fishermen unload
They know their work
I stand amazed
As my young cousin deftly filets
A mackerel for me
Tossing the guts

I know my own work
Back in the city
But it seems stale
As I smell the briny planks
And listen to the water
Lap against the boats
As gulls and terns call out
For their share of the catch

My cousin is a young man
But his hands are
Rough pitted and scarred
Aged by the biting salt
We share Acadian roots
Generations of hard slog
I tuck my cold smooth hands
into warm soft down pockets


— by Doreen LeBlanc



Doreen LeBlanc lives in Massachusetts and spends vacation time at her cabin in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, where she was born.  Inspiration bubbles up out of the river and sea, streams down the mountain, and comes through family stories and the beauty of Cape Breton and her Acadian and Scottish heritage.

Copyright ©2008, by Doreen LeBlanc and Spinozablue. All Rights Reserved.


Belle Côte Bog, by Doreen LeBlanc
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