18. An Evening

 

 

A View of the City – Author’s Recollection of his Youth Passed in that Place –Short Description of a Thunderstorm at Noon –Cascade Scene –Noontide Retreat –Rocks in the Beaches –Declining Sun and Revelers – Couple at the Restaurant Patio –Punk Rocker –Bloor Viaduct –Sunset.

Far from my mother, ‘tis all mine to rove,
Through the laneways of your castaway’s cove,
The crisscross grid Greater Toronto makes,
Through starts, and sudden stops, the downtown takes,
Staying the multitude to hear the roar,
Of the privileged rich and the busking poor,
Where crowded streets, no further aspects cheer,
Than more traffic which makes no prospects clear,
Where noise to invaded Ward Island bleeds,
To every doorway where the green grass leads,
Leads to that Ville, airport, past cottage grounds,
Where Flora aches to hear the city sounds,
Where dark and deep, Lake Ontario sweeps,
‘Round the captive Isle your champion keeps,
Where skyscrapers oppress Toronto’s shore,
Yet memory of departed pleasures more.

Great view! With older eyes than once, I gaze,
(My overwhelming tears your face displays)
Than when, erewhile, I was a happy child,
The pleasure of this shore, my bounty wild,
Then did no wave of loneliness demand,
The outpouring of melancholy’s hand,
In youth’s wide eye the horizon was bright,
The bustle of morning and the peace of night,
Unlike, for each new day with climbing fills,
By night, our pleasure to be passed those hills.
Return Pleasure! Each day a mount begun,
As life leads upwards with the morning sun,
When courage wiped away the heartfelt tear,
“For soon shall come an end to this long year.”

In mind of those hills, I coursed the city plain,
And growth was all I really knew of pain,
For then, save then, a broken heart would beat,
At times when every joy forsook its seat,
For then Assurance, looking onward showed,
Dark was the valley, though the steppes even glowed.
Alas! the paradise of youth is found,
When sadness would apply your moral round,
Impatient age seeks out social rays,
While solitude took heart in early days,
Yet still, the sport of some malignant power,
Separates us both this present hour.

While Memory, at my side, I wander here,
Starts at this sight, the unwanted tear,
A man discovered at the well-known seat,
His voyage guesses at the Great Lake’s feet,
The sun, the balm of summer, travelling nigh,
With sails that glide, like pleasures now gone by.

But why, in misery except this pain?
To ask if there are joys that yet remain.
Say, will you mum, with sympathetic ear,
The history of your poet’s evening hear?

When, at the docks, the wan noon beckoned still,
Brewed a rising storm up to Summerhill,
And gathered rows of war clad clouds were seen,
Threatening all communiqué between,
Gazing the quick turnstile, to all denied,
Then stood the picnickers against the side,
Where, from the concrete port’s unsheltered end,
Long wakes into the opaque lake extend,
While schoolkids gathered strength upon the green,
And around Harbourfront, a shimmering scene!
In the grey park, in droves, like troubled deer,
Avoided the herd, finished for the year,
When people in the sheltered places stood,
Uneasy, eyeing everywhere, the flood,
Crowded in the main, in their distress,
With forward sight, some welcome break to press,
Then long, in wistful gaze, their walk surveyed,
Till took the pathway in the dripping shade.

Then quiet led me peddling up the hill,
Brightening with sunny breaks, the peaceful gill,
To where, while dense the rushes rose,
From the basin, wherein dry stalks repose,
Whining insects, within the water green,
Cling to the stems, with dark marsh reeds between,
Save that, throughout, the scorching sunbeams shine,
On leafy boughs, that near the moss recline,
Poor light shines here, a manmade lone cascade,
Illumes a small reservoir in the shade,
Beyond, along the vista, much trail I brook,
When crying gulls in Kew Beach overtook,
My eyes turn back to see the narrow bridge,
And men, shirtless, fishing from the ridge.

Sweet day, farewell! Tomorrow’s noon again,
Shall bring me wooing long your sandy strain,
But now the hour has passed this empty road,
And eve’s slow breeze invites my steps abroad.

When, near the beaches’ rocks, the flying kite,
In many a daunting circle wheels its flight,
Long sunny rays, from clearing clouds apace,
Dart out and dance along the stony base,
Waving their light among the broken stone,
And fallen debris, and white foam, outgrown,
Where lichen is the hoary water’s beard,
And whitecap breakers, all day long, are heard.

How pleasant as the golden sun declines,
And in the clouds its lotion pours and shines,
To mark the revelers in the evening light,
Who never fade, but welcome in the night.
Youth’s paradise is not for old and hoar,
Following with my eyes crowds making shore,
And gathering sandy towels, they fold
Away daytime fun, last of summer’s gold,
For, now their sumptuous menus are laid,
A candlelight beneath umbrella shade,
The entrées arrive promptly for the folk,
Yet as for me, espresso, and a smoke.

Or chicken wings, the diner’s fingers goad,
Dipping in rich sauce, morsels by the load,
The couple next to the patios edge,
Over dinner, are working out their pledge,
The early evening rays, the pair illume,
And, amid sips of beer, is youth in bloom,
A remark he makes, no less propounds,
Joyful are her tears, and her heart resounds,
Beneath the evening sky their fingers lock,
Tussled by her hand, his dark matted shock,
In lower tones he makes a plaintive song,
With her approbation, they move along,
Past a small chapel at the city’s feet,
Where wedding bells, their rustic chimes entreat,
Vows in a restaurant a couple wrote,
And life two spend as one, not so remote.

Even here, away from the dense laid woods,
The deep lakes, and river’s annual floods,
Not undelightful are the urban charms,
Found miles distant from far outlying farms.

A punk rocker along the mean street walks,
Gazed by his fellow men, the rocker stalks,
Rough clad his hoofing boots, with heavy tread,
A crest of purple tops his warrior head,
Rude upbraiding, his sneering mouth, off hurls,
An old bandanna, shaken out, unfurls,
With abstract print, not long ago, allow,
Hangs, while wiping down his regal brow,
Stepping out for ale to quench his parched thirst,
A quiet night, in all likelihood, remote.

Brightening between the hills, where sombrous pine,
And buildings by Don Valley resign,
I love to ride in rushing subway trains,
Up high above the Parkway’s curving lanes,
How bustles the enormous hive within,
While fleeting Vision soothes the noisy din,
Some hardly knew the train tracks’ lumbering sound,
Would take the Bloor Viaduct Westbound,
Some more aware, the Don River espied,
And overlooked the city, side to side,
Out of dark tunnels electric tracks bring,
Passengers by an overhead passing.

Hung over the cars, above the hill that rears,
Engulfed in flame, the setting sun appears,
A crimson haze, its ancient orb divides,
Spreading the bounty of its golden sides,
And now it touches on the tree-lined steep,
That casts its shadow on the traffic deep,
On the Parkway lanes, drivers aspire,
With gasoline, to “Putting out the Fire,”
The viaduct and Don River in array,
From behind their sun visors, eyes foray,
To riverbeds arrayed in velvet green,
Each wisp of reeds, and broken stone, between,
Gentle currents, the orange beams illume,
Far in the recessed valley’s central gloom,
Wiping my brow, your cyclist in the vale,
Presses his bike for more trails to bale,
Here, casting shadows amid the slimy rocks,
Off road, where I go to test out the shocks,
Here, the bridge overhangs the vale, the needle shoots,
On concrete slopes, fast times, and fading roots,
The dealers with their lighted fane unfold,
And all sit shooting-up the liquid gold,
A sinking stone, the day star lessens still,
As I light up, it sinks behind the hill.