Conestogo



A single-lane bridge
In the country.
The Mennonites
Use it the most,
With corn fields
Surrounding,
And cattle,
And wire-fences
Nailed to old posts.
A resting spot
North of the suburbs,
With black buggies
Easy to spy.
The horses all
Glistening and clopping.
A hint of a time
We passed by.
The father, broad-brimmed,
Stately teamster.
His bonneted wife
At his side.
The purple-dressed
Daughters behind them,
Enjoying the change
Of the ride.
Politely, they
Honour my presence,
Alone at the road-side,
By car.
I’ve come here to
Listen to nature.
Just out of the
City, not far.
With Bible and
Note-pad beside me,
A chance to see
Life on the wing.
As blackbirds explode
From alfalfa.
And plovers so
Fretfully sing.
Some rooster proclaims
From a barnyard,
His kingdom extends
To the lane.
A collie comes
Over to greet me,
With broad grin
And soft, flowing mane.
I’m thankful
For slow Woolwich
Township.
Its Mennonites,
Back-roads and corn.
And marvel at God’s
Orchestration
Of this sunny
Sabbath-day’s morn.

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