"A Ghost of Nova Scotia" A poem for those thinking of home, now apart from Nova Scotian heart. Enjoy everyone.
A Ghost of Nova Scotia
by Anthony Hoban
Yearning for Scotian home’s coastal symphony—
Wind-shorn, storm-torn, caught between blood, brine, and bay,
Sleeper swept to granite cliffs—adrift, astray;
Revenant reeling, fiddler ghost freed;
Another alabaster stone skipped to sea—
Spun past harbour clams, steady in armoured shells,
Halifax Fusiliers salute fierce ocean swells;
Noon’s gunpowder gusts battling brackish knells—
Crystal white crests charging stone citadels,
Brimstone breeze soared to Louisbourg town bell...
Proud eyes, stout hearts here, Capers stubborn sheen:
The Cabot Trail’s loop, one destination—
New Scotland shores: sights Highland revelation.
Where fortress guards march—musket blades gleam;
Weathered walls, powder-shorn, shattered bones lean—
Still, fiddles fire foot-tapping tunes—
Gaelic troubadours of bent bow, spoon, and loom;
Iron ore and jet coal left now to loam...
Instead, sawed yarns of ships and spent steel mills,
Men of the deep singing, worn picks long stilled:
Where Glace Bay welcomes with salt-sweet seaweed stench;
Fog and hot fries wait steaming on Sydney Pier bench...
Where tuxedoed gulls squawk their winged wrench—
Stomp their webbed feet. Shriek Acadian claim;
Those Atlantic-shoal eagles of thieving fame.
Such French-fed songbirds flee—exit stage right,
Dockside tavern melodies flown from sight...
String music clinging to fiddle-ghosts’ flight,
Crocheted bow drawn ’cross isles’ emerald night.
Where a warm smile weaves with a familial tease—
Embroidered memories seeking home’s salt breeze,
Mother to morn like hearth-steeped tea.
In red-gold thread—her stitch through me—
Breton-borne pearlstone returned—soul sewn to sea.
Fin