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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=384014" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Cape Breton</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Out on the high &quot;bird islands,&quot; Ciboux and Hertford, <br>the razorbill auks and the silly-looking puffins all stand <br>with their backs to the mainland <br>in solemn, uneven lines along the cliff's brown grass-frayed edge, <br>while the few sheep pastured there go &quot;Baaa, baaa.&quot; <br>(Sometimes, frightened by aeroplanes, they stampede <br>and fall over into the sea or onto the rocks.) <br>The silken water is weaving and weaving, <br>disappearing under the mist equally in all directions, <br>lifted and penetrated now and then <br>by one shag's dripping serpent-neck, <br>and somewhere the mist incorporates the pulse, <br>rapid but unurgent, of a motor boat. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The same mist hangs in thin layers <br>among the valleys and gorges of the mainland <br>like rotting snow-ice sucked away <br>almost to spirit; the ghosts of glaciers drift <br>among those folds and folds of fir: spruce and hackmatack-- <br>dull, dead, deep pea-cock colors, <br>each riser distinguished from the next <br>by an irregular nervous saw-tooth edge, <br>alike, but certain as a stereoscopic view. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The wild road clambers along the brink of the coast. <br>On it stand occasional small yellow bulldozers, <br>but without their drivers, because today is Sunday. <br>The little white churches have been dropped into the matted hills <br>like lost quartz arrowheads. <br>The road appears to have been abandoned. <br>Whatever the landscape had of meaning appears to have been abandoned, <br>unless the road is holding it back, in the interior, <br>where we cannot see, <br>where deep lakes are reputed to be, <br>and disused trails and mountains of rock <br>and miles of burnt forests, standing in gray scratches <br>like the admirable scriptures made on stones by stones-- <br>and these regions now have little to say for themselves <br>except in thousands of light song-sparrow songs floating upward <br>freely, dispassionately, through the mist, and meshing <br>in brown-wet, fine torn fish-nets. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A small bus comes along, in up-and-down rushes, <br>packed with people, even to its step. <br>(On weekdays with groceries, spare automobile parts, and pump parts, <br>but today only two preachers extra, one carrying his frock coat on a<br> hanger.) <br>It passes the closed roadside stand, the closed schoolhouse, <br>where today no flag is flying <br>from the rough-adzed pole topped with a white china doorknob. <br>It stops, and a man carrying a bay gets off, <br>climbs over a stile, and goes down through a small steep meadow, <br>which establishes its poverty in a snowfall of daisies, <br>to his invisible house beside the water. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The birds keep on singing, a calf bawls, the bus starts. <br>The thin mist follows <br>the white mutations of its dream; <br>an ancient chill is rippling the dark brooks.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elizabeth+Bishop">Elizabeth Bishop</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=384014" data-title="Cape Breton de Elizabeth Bishop" data-description="Out on the high &quot;bird islands,&quot; Ciboux and Hertford, 
the razorbill auks and the silly-looking puffins all stand 
with their backs to the mainland 
in solemn, uneven lines along the cliff's brown grass-frayed edge, 
while the few sheep p..."></div>
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