Courtesy of the author.
In 1848, on a day in March
Huge chunks of ice
Pierced Niagara’s head.
Downstream, the falls dried up.
Residents looked down –
The mighty thunder, silenced –
Then up to the sky, fearful.
News traveled slowly.
The churches were filled
As the fish died.
Tourists came from far
To walk across the bed.
When the ice dam cleared
Some must have felt foolish,
While others just waited
For their god’s next missive.
©2010 by John Newmark
Source: Medium January 27, 2023
Also published in John Newmark. Why We Should Not Read W.H. Auden. Lulu.com, 2014
John Newmark lives in St. Louis, Missouri with his wife and two children. An avid family historian, his 5th great grandfather, McGregory Vanevery, was one of the original settlers of Niagara, Ontario. He enjoys writing poetry about his ancestors, and the places they lived. Visit his website.