Cyn,

   My preference is for the layout of the top version but the spider metaphor (S2 in the middle version) is too meaningful to be left out.

        Terence   

yeah, I think I am with you on this one nas

This piece has been revised a few times now. Opinions please

Ho ho

But you are very convincing. Maybe someday. I am still too new at this.

Wow Joe
What a compliment.
I have performance anxiety though. Somehow I don't see me giving a reading. But it is an intriguing thought. One I had never entertained before.  Thanks

Cyn,

I do find this flow much better and it is not too long imo, the more of this writing the better really. A bit of research tells me that the song of the whitethroat sparrow is known to sound like ‘O Canada’ so I get that aspect. I also see you are making good use of consonance, etc., rather than rhyme.

One thing I am unsure about is whether there is an underlying, metaphorical, reference to an actual lover or if it is personification of the land, if you see what I mean. Could be neither, but if I am on the right track perhaps that aspect could be emphasized more. Either way I do like the slightly melancholy feel of pining that comes across.

    Terence

Fair enough Terrence. This is here for help.
The stanza breaks can be modified. I will give it a try and see if it helps this one for you.

Maybe it is just too long? And I am unsure if the mood I am trying to convey even comes through. 

Although I am glad the imagery works some.
Cyn

Here are two new versions of this poem, please let me know which of the 3 work better for you. I am inclined to go with the shortest piece but wonder if it becomes too subtle. Please read from the top down

Up North

Up north 
where my tanned skin first lay touching yours, 
a whitethroat calls 
until the last jig-saw pieces of light 
fall from between the branches 
and all that remains is shadow cast by the moon 
reflecting off the bay. 

I wake from my dozing to the rolling 
of thunder, rumbling 
off this granite island’s floor, 
and to the rain borne on the wind 
through the open window 
above my bed. 

It passes directly overhead, 
quieting the early birds, bidding beetles 
and bugs of every sort to seek shelter, 
along with the hint of first-light, 
between the battered boards 
of my cabin's walls. 

The rain moves off 
along the archipelago 
to erase the eastern shore, 
blots out the gradient glow 
of the orange orb 
making its morning there. 

A promise hangs in the air 
somewhere, as tenuous and tenacious 
as spider's silk, repaired by dawn, 
the finishing touches tended to 
as day begins to break. 
And the whitethroat takes up his call: 

O my Canada Canada Canada Canada
Oh my Canada.

Up North

Up north 
where my tanned skin first lay touching yours, 
a whitethroat calls 
until the last jig-saw pieces of light 
fall from between the branches 
and all that remains is shadow cast by the moon 
reflecting off the bay. 

The spider seems to freefall, 
spinning, legs outstretched as if 
to slow her plunge. Her web 
is perfectly designed, 
methodical, defined, 

yet unsafe from the uninvited 
who fray her fabric, 
so willfully woven, and begin 
her downward drift. 

I wake from my dozing to the rolling 
of thunder, rumbling 
off this granite island’s floor, 
and to the rain borne on the wind 
through the open window 
above our bed. 

It passes directly 
overhead, quieting 
the early birds, bidding beetles 
and bugs of every sort to seek shelter, 
along with the hint of first-light, 
between the battered boards 
of my cabin's walls. 

The rain moves off 
along the archipelago 
to erase the eastern shore, 
blots out the gradient glow 
of the orange orb 
making morning there. 

A promise hangs in the air 
somewhere, as tenuous and tenacious 
as spider's silk, repaired by dawn, 
the finishing touches tended to 
as day begins to break. 
And the whitethroat takes up his call: 

O my Canada Canada Canada Canada
Oh my Canada.


Up North
 
Up north 
where my tanned skin  
first lay touching yours, 
the whitethroat calls 
until the last shards of light 
fall from between the branches, 
and all that remains  
is shadow cast by the moon  
reflecting off the bay. 
I beg for a breeze; I am 
sleepless without you, 
and I want the wind's caress. 
 
But he does not comply, fickle 
as a former friend. In the still 
my will wanders;  
is there a method to this
madness, this spiraling down? 
The spider seems to freefall, spinning, 
legs outstretched as if  
to slow her plunge. Her web 
is perfectly designed, methodical, defined, 
yet unsafe from the uninvited  
who fray this fabric,  
so willfully woven, to begin  
her downward drift. 

I wake  
from my dozing to the rolling 
of thunder, rumbling 
off the granite floor 
of this island and to the rain 
borne on the wind 
through the open window  
above our bed. The end  
of the doldrum? The tempest 
passes directly overhead, quieting 
the early birds, bidding beetles 
and bugs of every sort 
to seek shelter, along with the hint of first-light, 
between the battered boards 
of this cabin's walls. 
 
The rain moves off 
along the archipelago 
to erase the eastern shore, 
and blots out the gradient glow  
of the orange orb making its morning appearance  
there. A promise hangs in the air  
somewhere, as tenuous and tenacious 
as spider's silk, repaired by dawn, 
finishing touches tended to 
as day begins to break. 
And the whitethroat takes up his call: 
 
Oh my Canada Canada Canada Canada
Oh my Canada. 
 
Cyn