Over the last month we spent a few weeks on the Gaspe Peninsula along the north shore, with many days in Cap des Rosiers. The following is a poem that I am struggling through. It is a work in progress.
When I was in the Gaspe on the ocean words came to me not paintings. Jotting these thoughts down over time has helped me digest my trip and also my complete stupidity regarding time. How am I here now and there then? The whole thing is weird. In any event here is my poem in progress.
The white lines stay, written on the sea as it were
They had moved up and down, jagged turns and ways back, the quartz composition in the cliff, geological time markings, stories
Their sharp curves and sudden stops only to be reconnected when the tides move in and they sublimate to water
I have been near the sea, it’s salt and thick air full of fishy tones
The night waves rock us to sleep but enter us too, embedding their rhythm into tissue, sinew and bone
Our body’s circulations ebb and flow now like tides
The sun shone brightly onto our beach, it was ours and only ours
The larger rocks tossed around the pebbles are in perfect formations – like a sculpture garden with an uncomplicated focus
The waves had come again, this time riding high with white foam, crashing down, prone, teeth-like and then scattered sparkling green blue water
We noticed how the wind moved the shore into and away from us; our footing was wobbly inspiring moments of healthy fear
Today we moved about like the clouds, at times swiftly with blowy determination, bright and white and then grey, then to a slow temporal wandering
Eventually the clouds (not us) turned into a blank vapour and took from us our cliffs, birds, mountains and finally our lighthouse that disappeared during the bright time of the day.
Veiled by the grey matter, freezing wet* fog crawled onto everything
When it left, the fog had not gotten rid of anything but only hid what mattered most, our shiny hopes and dreams
*Fog or a sea fret as the English would say has always appeared when on the east coast, always obscuring our sketching site lines and making the expectations of vista dulled. I like to look at vistas, not capture vistas anyway.