isobelmtl

Writing under a Montreal sky

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about

Isobel Cunningham has published short fiction and poetry. Her book, Northern Compass is available on Amazon. She was born in Wales but Montreal is her adopted home. She speaks French, Modern Greek ( it’s a fun story) and a little Spanish…oh, English too, of course. She welcomes comments on her blog and looks forward to chatting with you over cyber-space.

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  • Gleaming river that flows timelessly for a while One day, one afternoon, one hour of quiet Only the cry of the geese, the murmur of wind in the slanted autumn light A hawk poised on the updraft His wing feathers tilting agains the changing sky My heart opens just a little Was it a knock…

  • Shakespearean sonnet on the moon

    Small moon, each night you hold us in your arc Though ever fluid in your form and in your path You dimly vanquish sacred night’s dread dark And soften our vile actions’ aftermath. Symbol of longing, love and sweet desire Of dark despair or hopeless lonely grief See how the poet prays your silver beams…

  • Moving Day

    The gaze of the young mover, grave, muscled His glasses a nod to the world of the mind, the life apart from the material world. But is the mind ever apart from the life of the material world? Brute strength, muscle power, lift and carry, Never apart from the guile of coaxing, shaping, shifting, yes,…

  • Listening to The Chieftains

                  Please tell me you know who they are. That’s right the oldest, wittiest most authentic and yet most inclusive of Irish music bands. I get on my jags with music. Sometimes it’s Mexican or Russian or French chansons. I’ll play the same CD over and over again in…

  • Gold in the Gutter

          Gold in the gutter The hour, the golden hour has come For you to flutter, for you to fall. Your song becomes a stutter, a cry. The others lie though they too were so proud against the sky. Gold and high but no more can they fly the flag of beauty. Gold…

  • Late for dinner

    What is this place where they tell you they’ll hold dinner for you because there are right whales off the lighthouse and you have a little time.  Maybe you’ll see them. What is this place where the broad flat sea stetches away from the lace-rimmed rocks out to the horizon where the paler sky sits?…

  • The Lighthouse

    Set on some windy highland where blasted trees struggle for survival, By definition prey to storms.  No silence here, the breath of wind and shush of wave below Punctuated by the cries of gulls, the sighing wet breath of humpback or minke whales and from time to time the chugging motor of a fishing boat.…

  • Sky whale

                  Crossing on the ferry, between the shaggy islands I scanned the sea for whales. Was that a spray from a blow hole? a fin? Or just the crest of a subtle wave on the day’s calm sea. I came for whales!  Where are they, in the churning wake…

  • Small town

                  It is it is a pretty town.  Artists come to paint the boats in the harbour or the grand Algonquin Hotel.  The town has a United Empire Loyalist history complete with a cemetery.   The streets are classically named for King and Queen and for their many children,…

  • Roofs in St Andrews

                               I forgot many things in preparing for this trip.  I forgot my hairbrush, my waterproof shell, my painting kit.  I was a bit scattered.  I was distracted by my preoccupations, my emotions, my worries about how I would manage the rented car,…