Music of the Gaspe
The Gaspe Peninsula dancing to music only she can hear,
She starts in the Appalachians of Northern Alabama;
Until she plunges into the sea at the end of the Gaspe,
The Mi'knaq Indians called it, the place where land ends.
She murmurs the music of the Scots and Irish settlers,
With fiddles and violins strumming and Gaelic lyrics;
On summer days, she is wildflowers and sun-drenched meadows,
That ripple in the fresh, sea breezes of the Saint Lawrence.
There are many wind turbine forests, a hundred miles high,
And the sound of the fiddles scream in her heart;
Along her shores she is rich wilderness, red cliffs, and forests,
And always the salt-tinged wind is caressing her soul.
Her peaks rise up to the azure blue sky in sweet solitude,
Birds swoop and glide her towering open rock forms;
And she hears accordian, gentle and soothing, weeping so softly,
And scattered are quaint villages and towns with bright roofs.
Many a shipwreck lay off her shores and the violin is sadness,
And the Blue Whales come surfacing and diving deeply;
Their blow-holes, blowing plumes thirty feet tall with a whoosh,
In the waters of the mighty Saint Lawrence that flows.
The fiddles are piercing and the piano cries as she nears her end,
Land plunges into the sea, and her journey has ended;
She is dancing to music only she can hear, of seascapes so beautiful,
Of boreal forests, pristine waters, wildlife, and high mountains.
_____________________________
October 5, 2015
Short Story/Music of the Gaspe
Copyright Protected, ID 15-714-669-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
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