Against twilight's
golden light,
I scanned
a low arc of rich
purple
mountains hunkering down
to the steely grey water
which flowed to that
spirit place, tangible, sacred
so removed from the nearby metropolis.
Had you asked me then
I may have said yes,
but you saw the island
as a destination
impatient for the promise of the next day.
The Trans-Canada behind us
its glacial majesty
dissolving
out of shape
like ice from a creek
brought to boil over the fire
in that deserted hostel.
Your plan threw me
just as, high in the Rockies,
amid rustling plastic bags of film and loading my camera
a baby bear stuck its head through my window, inches from my face,
my scream of surprise cruelling
the shot I tried to orchestrate without success
So awkwardly & honourably
you put the question
in the arches of
Butchard Gardens.
I wanted to scream 'No' but instead, sent myself up.
You took pictures of my clowning around
-- and laughed and played along.
Inside, I cried for you:
for not knowing that
we could not go back to
that place we had never reached
despite our journey and time together,
we were merely fellow travellers
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