Onward I fly, an old frosted gull,
Above a sea of blue,
Towards the sheltered harbour,
That through storms was ever true.

I pass the roughly pummeled Branesses,
And sail straight to Blackberry Head,
To watch the waves shoot skyward,
And pound the shore with dread.

The Pinnacle lies north of me,
Standing as a guard,
I have stood upon the top of it,
And surveyed Aunt Pearl’s yard.

I cross the arm of sun drenched water,
And soar above John White’s beach,
Whose strand of shrubs and wild grasses,
The crowds would often breach.

Past the fields of wilted straw,
And the ones of green,
Sits refreshing little Bottle Pond,
Whose cold water made the children scream.

Gliding over the community park,
To the harbour mouth,
The only waves that could invade,
Came vainly from the south.

I turn my wings towards a little cove,
Whose steep hill the houses bore,
With one old lonely salt box,
Clinging to the shore.

I pass the weathered fishing premises,
Hard against the rock,
The community stages were where,
Daily catches were often brought.

I rise above the Barracks’ Hill,
And there seated upon the stone,
Is the sacred house of God,
That called the Army faithful home.

I glance towards the tiny islands,
Just off from the rocky shores,
Standing guard against the elements,
Watching over the wharfs and stores.

I hear the sound of laughter,
From kids of yesteryear,
Playing ball hockey in the lane,
When the coast was clear.

Breezing ever higher,
I spy the old hay field,
Where Graydon Verge cut the grass,
White spruce now tries to steal.

I look towards the Country Road,
The pastures wild and free,
Here the roaming livestock grazed,
Looking down upon the sea.

Heading towards the harbour,
I see the flooded bog again,
In years of yore, the children played,
A good old hockey game.

Swooping past the tilted soccer pitch,
Where a ball kicked in excited rage,
Would end up in the harbour,
Besides Pierce England’s fishing stage.

Surfing the windy thermals,
That welled up from the land,
I hear children’s excited laughter,
From the hill on which they stand.

Here Harbour View Academy,
Perched upon the rise,
Molded the minds of many,
Through repeated exercises.

Coasting over the rising land,
The Orange Lodge is bathed in sunshine,
The community came together here,
For concerts and times.

I know of potlucks and bean suppers,
And the boilers of soup,
And that banter was as important as food,
To the always hungry group.

Just across the road,
Stood Betty Moore’s store,
Where you could find most anything,
And probably even more.

Riding a slight breeze,
I head straight for Upward’s Cove,
Pass where once stood the Post Office,
Where the postmistress worked and strove.

I gaze at the wild beach,
Of steep and heavy stone,
Trapped between rock faces,
Pounded by the foam.

Slipping over the hamlet,
That once was so alive,
I remember the many kids and animals,
Frolicking side by side.

I spot the small library,
Built upon a turn,
Where the books provided nourishment,
For those who love to learn.

Up the lane past the graveyard,
Was a very special place,
Every June during Sports Day,
Children played, jumped and raced.

The highest building in the harbour,
Stands upon a grassy knoll,
The United Church, where the bell rang,
Bringing in the fold.

Of the many times I’ve flown above,
I’ve watched the people be,
A vibrant, engaged community,
Surrounded by the sea.

Flying high above the ocean,
I turn and head for other parts,
Leaving picturesque Harry’s Harbour,
Forever in our hearts.