A quieter day

Days without sun are "quiet" to me. The warmth of the sun is "noisy." People hit beaches, voices rise, colours more vivid. My favourite time out here is at sunset. I am uploading a picture to show one facet of our magnificent sunsets. I can't seem to stop taking pictures of our sunsets, they are different and the same.
I finally sorta finished the poem about my voice. I am still not happy with all of it, but very pleased with parts of it.
I have this fabulous deck being built by this incredible man. The deck, known as a "gallery" in Newfie lingo is six feet wide and thirty six feet long. It is not quite finished yet, but getting there within a few hours, I would say, just the curlicues being added, tops of posts. It is a simple deck, straight lines in keeping with the solid lines of the house. Even in its unfinished stages I could hardly keep myself off it. The water is more accessible, the trees more protective, the dog knows her spot already and can move a snout to between the rails to maintain a better bead on the road. The man who is building it is formed like the men my father knew. Men who instinctively know how to build a boat or tell you why your house is always damp or your car is spitting oil, the names of all your trees, the type of birds that fly in them and on and on. There aren't so many of them around now, they are dying off. We are all specialists, and I have an idea for another article, don't I. A world of specialists. We only know about our chosen fields. And more's the pity.
And here's the sorta finished version of the poem:
My Voice

Smothered in sounds of brothers and father,
Squeaking then squashed, lilting then lost
In a sudden shimmer of stage-light.
Rescued by a rugby-playing toy soldier.

Borne like a trophy to a distant land.
Emerging in a few scattered splutters,
Drowned by unshed tears and
The silken, soothing sibilance of whiskey.

Now buried deeper and deeper,
In the squalls of babies, the howls of adolescence.
Lost in the carping criticism
They became. Redeemed yet again

Flickering bravely in the love-light
Flaming stronger and stronger in a grandchild’s eyes.
My long-stilled voice,
Clearing its own throat.

Testing and teasing, not caring what’s pleasing,
Rising and falling, chanting and calling,
In still morning air and star struck nights
As it screams the truth in exultation. MM August 3rd, 2005

I didn't succeed in uploading, I will have to try again.