A poem by Mary Anderson

Progress of Madness

1971

Georgia Strait

Contoured by the gods of Art,
in the heyday of their time
and sheltered from the wild Pacific storms,
this massive pond can mirror half
a hundred wooded isles
and many a snowy peak along
it’s lovely placid miles.
Today it paints a rainbow, or
a sunset, as maybe
and many a drowsy sail becalmed,
upon it’s glassy sea;
And tomorrow north-west winds may whip
it’s beaches westerly,
or  south-east wind, in fury, lash
it’s waters easterly;
but, tranquil or tempestuous
this goodly region bears
the self sufficient attributes of
nature’s richest  wares.


Mary Anderson