Upon Newfoundland’s rugged, storm-swept shore,
Where rain descends in drifts of cold lament,
The fog envelops lands forevermore,
And every breath is sharp with damp intent.

The summer rain, though light, is never mild,
It weaves through moss and stone with sullen grace,
Yet in its chill, the land is reconciled,
And finds a quiet beauty to embrace.

Forget-me-nots near  pools of mist are cast,
Their petals blue as twilight’s fleeting dream,
They bloom despite the frost that holds them fast,
And whisper secrets in the fog’s soft gleam.

So in this somber, mist-clad place of old,
The heart finds warmth where winter’s hands unfold.

-M. S Chandler