In dreams I see his solitary figure still
Standing beside that naked rock
Beside the deep blue Atlantic Ocean
Pipe in hand and deep in thought
And as a boy I wondered why
This old man stood there so.

Did he gaze upon a distant shore
Far across the ocean, where
Once his people stood so long ago
And bid farewell to loved ones, seen no more
People he knew only from stories told
Around the kitchen stove on cold winter nights
Back when he was a boy like me.

Stories told with love and longing
Of people and places he had never seen.
His gaze did turn to the house he built
To the wife and family he loved so dear
And the land he called his own, something
They had never had until coming here.

With his thoughts put back from where they came
He tapped his pipe against that same naked rock
Slipped it into a pocket
Tipped his hat to the people of his dreams
Climbed the fence and walked back home.
Back to the home he called his own
And in his mind he thanked
The people of his dreams
For coming here.

Cyril Griffin
New Perlican, NL