The Bow

As for decades we have walked the Rideau bank
watching generations of goslings grow
So in those now-mythical Seventies 
we walked the wilder banks of the Bow
beneath cottonwood on sandy paths
over gravel banks left by mountain ice
that still turns the rushing water turquoise
and colours glass towers sprung up since

We pushed back hanging branches quoting Frost
and paused a second for the photo that, 
found in Mom’s album, makes us pause
again now to admire the gleam
that rises from young flesh, ourselves 
as we still see us, large against a cloudless sky.

© Colin Morton