Waterspouts Over Lake Huron

The sky before you is alight with yellow fire,

            Glowing hazily—

            Like the smoking branches of a burning evergreen,

            As billowing clouds cross the lake— a sweeping wall

                        That is both solid and ephemeral.

The clash of golden air and turgid, inky water

            Stings your eyes, and lifts your chin in awe,

            Where emerges one, two, even three, whirling funnels:

                        The hollow pillars of a floating hall.  

With powerful slowness that you sense deep in your bones,

            Seeming to shake the stone beneath your toes,

            You watch the plumes of mist swirl and elongate,

            Connecting to form grey, faceless caryatids, that are rising,

                        Rising, from the water.

**The inspiration for this poem came from an unexpected birthday surprise on the day I turned twenty-one; just as we were about to leave our cottage for home, and I was headed off to university the next week, I looked out on the lake and saw waterspouts starting to form over the water. This remains the first and last time (to date) that I’ve seen waterspouts (or the beginnings of them), and I feel very lucky that I saw it on my birthday, as though it was a gift from Mother Nature.