From The Scrapbook By Rev. Bill Randall


October 1997

 By Dr. Bill Randall

My Thoughts Of Sunrise At Loon Lodge

We have enjoyed a beautiful autumn with the great array of colors and as the leaves fall we recognize that our summer season is near it’s close.

But there are memories of summer and Lynda Coffey has recorded her memory in a poem which she is sharing with us this month.

Lynda traces her ancestors to Acton. She has had a career as a Home Economist and now makes her home in St. Stephen.

In August she visited her friends Mary Hill and Carl. Vail at their beautiful summer place, Loon Lodge, on Oromocto Lake.

Sitting in the living room looking out over Mary’s garden and the beauty of the summer morning over the lake, she captures nature’s beauty in this poem. Thank you, Lynda.

My Thoughts of Sunrise at Loon Lodge

By Lynda Coffey 

Wednesday, 20 August, 1997

A silver stream of ribbon lays across a moonlit lake,

A loon sounds with a mournful cry that only he can make.

A silence settles o’er the scene as darkness falls around,

And a beauty one can scarce describe about us does abound.

In the daylight hours, the magic of this place is still not lost 

The sights one sees would not be things you’d buy at any cost. 

The sunrise on the lake, the pale blue shadows on far shore, 

The peacefulness that extends right up around the cottage door.

The mist rises from the water like a ghostly marching throng,

 As the view I watch grows lighter and those ghosts just roll along. 

The forest shapes come clearer with a beauty all their own, 

As the last traces of the night time are overpowered and are gone.

The hummingbirds, those tiny souls, begin their daily chore, 

Like silhouettes, they sip, are gone, then back again for more. 

They dart this way and that, then for an instant just hang there, 

As if God’s hand has stopped them for a short small bit of prayer.

The gardens you can once more see, renewed by nightly dew,

Their colors seem more vivid as in these sunrise hours you view

The reds and whites and blues, the yellows, purples, golds and greens 

Are painted by a Holy hand that we have not yet seen.

The blue jay settles on the porch to eat some leftover crumb.

The squirrel moves in the branches as if he’s heard a call to come. 

In this quiet garden setting one’s at peace with all about,

And the wonders of the Creator’s hand leave little room for doubt.

If we all could take a moment to watch hummingbirds at play, 

Or see blossoms slowly open as they welcome the new day, 

And just feel the sense of wonder as a breeze stirs in the trees, 

We’d thank God for all this beauty and the one more chance to see.

Source: Rev. Bill Randall’s “From The Scrapbook Vol. One.”

Recommended Reading

Interested in learning more about the rich history and heritage of the Harvey region? Here are a few blog posts that might pique your interest: