This poem is of an abandoned community in Northwest Arm, Trinity Bay. It was first known as Magotty Cove. In 1936, Thomas Cooper had it renamed "Inglewood Forest." It is known now as Coopers Brook by the locals. The first known inhabitant was William Cooper, my great-great-great-grandfather. William Cooper was the first lighthouse keeper at East Random Head, and his son Thomas took over the light after him. William Cooper is buried at Inglewood, as well as Thomas's first wife Cassandra, as well as another Cooper. The poem is just a glimpse into the past, and typical of how people from the Hant's Harbour area migrated into the Random Island area in the early 1800's in search of timber. Hopefully it will remind people to respect such sacred places.

“Inglewood”

As I stare through the window at the cove out the Arm,
I can hear my Pop’s words to me
of the place he was born, and grew,
before he sailed for Gallipoli.
“It was a wonderful place,
no prettier place you could be.”

Across the Bay from Hant’s Harbour,
the Coopers came, for big timber they did find;
they slaved, and strained, and hammered, and pained,
for a sawmill they did mind.
As they cut, and slashed, and cleared the land
they prayed their new life to be kind;
for they knew if they searched along shore, and sound,
no prettier a place they would find.

The big pine, and spruce and fir they did cut,
and poled down the lake to the dam.
The sawmill it whined all summer and fall,
for no better lumber was seen by man.
I remember my grandfather with a tear in his eye,
as he sipped his cup of tea;

he talked of where he trouted, and hunted,
and played along the shore.
His mind drifted back to a beautiful place,
where the path led to his Grandmother Charity’s door;
if he was lucky, a hot cinnamon bun might be in store.

The kerosene light in the window
was always a warming sight,
especially in the cold winters grip,
as it drifted into night.

When spring’s thawing came,
and the brook began to rise,
the old water wheel strained to come alive;
and soon the brook would be blocked with logs,
as they started with the drive.

The rich soil gave them vegetables;
of none you’ve seen the like.
For fruit they picked blueberries and partridgeberries,
worth every bit the hike.


Only the remnants of the cellars
speak now of where the houses used to stand.
The old mill is gone too,
except for some cribbing, rock, and sand.
Uncle Tom’s field is still there,
with the big apple trees so grand;
this is where he struggled with rock and sod,
with big old callused hands.


If you happen upon a place called “Inglewood,”
tread lightly and with respect.
If you stumble across the headstones there,
remember to be reverent.
The little cemetery, it has grown over a bit, but if you're there, bow your head under the big old tree,
for you never know who may be looking down on thee.

Douglas G. Pelley

2008-10-22   Submitted By: NULL