Great Blue Heron in the Niagara Glen Photo by Ken Gierke
Consider the river that cares not
what man thinks of it, churning
over obstacles that will not impede it
in a gorgeous canyon, miles from
a roaring cataract yet filled with the sound
of a rapid staccato best heard at the water’s edge,
that edge approached with peril for it cares not
what safety one desires when near, its own safety
never at stake, raging as it does at the disservice
served upon it, the waters it carries never truly clean,
yet powerless, despite its power, to change that course.
Now walk the trails that lie beside it, trails
that care not whether they are trod by soled feet
or the pads of wildlife content to share
with those who understand the fragile nature
of their home, this pocket of green. Marvel
at the escarpment that once was the falls
as the river wore at its limestone foundation
in its inexorable march to the current home
of those falls. Move briefly through shadow
between boulders larger than a house,
cleaved from the side of the wall towering
above you, as you wind your way to the river.
Watch a heron pull a fish from the water as you sit
on the rocks at the river’s edge, then gaze
at the roiling water beside you, sun glinting
from the foam of the rapids. Follow that light
to see the sun approach the crest of the gorge,
all the while taking in the green that surrounds you,
green that would not be had it not been preserved
by those who understand its fragile nature.
Source: The author, 2026. First published 2021 at Earthweal
This poem was inspired by walks in the gorge at Niagara Glen. The attached photo of a great blue
heron was taken there.
Watch Ken Gierke perform Gorgeous
Ken Gierke was born and raised in Western New York and, since moving to Missouri in 2012, has
missed Niagara Falls the most. He was twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has been featured
online and in numerous print anthologies. His four poetry collections from Spartan Press, Glass Awash
(1922), Heron Spirit (2024), Random Riffs (2025), and The Long Haul (2026), are available on
Amazon. More of his poetry can be found at https://rivrvlogr.com/.
The Niagara River, the strait of water between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, carries all of the water of the upper Great Lakes. Much of the thirty-six mile length of the river was lined with industry, including within the gorge below Niagara Falls. The majority of that industry is gone, with the few remaining on the US side in the stretch north of Buffalo. While stricter regulations and ambitious cleanup campaigns, from the late twentieth century onward, reversed much of the degradation of the lakes during the industrial era, toxic sediments still exist and agricultural runoff remains a serious problem. The Canadian side of the Niagara River is a true parkway, maintained by Niagara Parks of Ontario. Beyond the falls, from the whirlpool to the end of the gorge is Niagara Glen, where a stairway descends the gorge wall to join four miles of trails that lead to the river’s edge as they wind through a Carolinian forest. When I lived in New York, I often crossed into Canada at Niagara Falls, just to walk those trails. The rapids within the gorge range from Class III to Class V.
There’s an interesting truth about rowing
You only see what you’ve left behind
You don’t know where you’re going…
Part 1
Dark shadows and dreams plagued
throughout the long night
With tortured regrets and remembrances of past mistakes…
Sweat chilled in the early dawn of warm growing light
Came the realization that she was awake.
Cold hands pushed back blankets, that summer day
And the fractured old fears and memories that lay
Between the invisible skim of surface…
That separates past time and its fullness, from the present.
Stepped out of the room and walked away
It was the rowing in the morning that mattered.
Dawn chorus of avian throats and tiny insect buzz
Knock of woodpecker and clouds of amorous breakfasting bugs,
steaming wisps like cotton candy, drifting off the still water
pale sun slowly rising above ancient hemlocks and fog
Green and mourning the interminable passage of time.
She walked past the old campfire and overturned logs
Smell of wood smoke, damp earth and fresh pine
Down to the water’s edge and stopped.
The little green rowboat sat waiting
Resting on the beach,
Her hands grasped the pale worn wooden oars
That slipped into the locks on the varnished gunwhale with a bang.
The boat anchor — a big heavy stone, placed within reach.
Waded out and climbed aboard, crouching low, staying centered
Balanced and gripping the oars and quietly remembered
An important life lesson that he’s often said really mattered.
She took her place on the hard seat,
Facing the stern, while the boat’s pointed prow
cut through the morning stillness and the glassy, dark surface.
And then the journey was ahead.
It was all lean and pull, lean and pull,
Feet braced, back rocking, muscles sliding, little boat gliding forward.
Pull and glide, pull and glide, strong heads so steady
The view at the back spread out slowly before her.
The morning was new, the wind still sleeping and the lake was a mirror.
And the silver birch and the jack pine shimmered above and below
the cool mirror that was all aglow, with the blue morning.
And her heart and her head and the lake were one.
Behind the boat the ripples widened and spread
Trails of fragile gold bubbles danced on the surface
Marking a fine trail that soon simply vanished
on the calm lake in the pale dawning light of the sun.
But in the afternoon, the wind would rise and the lake would change
It would be noisy with boats, and music and wakeboards
And outboards and inboards, and paddleboards.
And the afternoon people who ignored nature’s warnings.
The lake was hers, now, all alone in the morning.
The craggy cliff’s granite face rose and fell, in perfect reflection
guarding the shoreline like a vigilant watchman.
Swimming close to port side, a loon called soft warning.
Diamonds flashed on its plumage as it dove down below
A tiny bass flipped on the surface beside her,
Lightly creasing the mirror’s clean glassy image.
Past dreams and the nightmares were all left on shore,
As the quiet journey continued, her spirit lifted and soared.
It was peaceful within her and it was all good,
In the morning, and the lake was hers alone.
Part 2
Then the wind blew up a sudden chill, from out of the west
and the quiet lake’s face turned angry and sullen.
Then came the heavy dark clouds and the portent of rain
The waves grew higher and the sun was black masked.
Against the strong current her arm muscles strained.
But all was still good,
It was a simple morning workout.
It was early, and the lake was hers alone.
It was the crash at the front the changed things.
She felt the hit first in her back, and then head and neck contorted,
the wooden oars vibrated and slipped in a blur
Over the silvery surface of the freshly marred mirror
And she splashed in the water and the reflections collided
and blurred, while the sky and the lake flipped, churned — and distorted.
The wind began blowing hard over the port side
Dangerously rocking the boat.
She’d hit something big in the water.
The boat kept moving. Didn’t stop or turn ’round.
It wouldn’t matter if she just kept on going,
She was alone on the lake in the morning.
No one knew what she did in the morning.
Then she stopped. Frightened…
and looked back to see what she’d done.
There was a deadhead.
A log, floating just below the surface of the water.
Lying like a submarine beneath the surface of the water.
Like a faceless totem from earlier times
The size of a big man’s body
Cut down
From the old green pines that stood all around
the lake and the hillside. She’d happened upon
a wooden colossus floating face down. Swollen and cold
With the water it absorbed, over unmeasured time.
Hidden, it hunted like a predator, hungry and old.
Beneath the cracked face of the mirror.
Not human.
So she shrugged and kept rowing on track for the land.
After all, the lake was hers alone, in the morning.
Then she stopped, and turned back, water splashed on her hands.
The green boat tossed on the lake’s transformed rugged surface
By the wind that blew hard, and the billowing waves bleak attack
splashed over the gunnels. The boat started to drift and almost flipped over.
Then she stood tall and straight, in the boat in the midst of the storm.
Remembering the lessons she’d learned from her father.
The deadhead was a hidden time bomb — a certain disaster
For the people that would surely come after,
The laughing adults and children,
And the ski boat, and the wakeboat and the din that blasted,
With the miserably overloud music, buzzing jet boats and chaotic conditions
she hated.
The lake was lost to her in those hours.
There was a rope in the bottom of the boat and she grabbed it.
Leaned over the side and frantically pulled the deadhead much closer.
It was heavy and dark and green slippery with rot,
Still she seized it, and tied it fast with a strong sailor’s knot
Remembering the one that her father had taught.
A father who’d died early that same year in the spring
Her bitter tears dried with the change that time brings.
But despite how she’d tried, she hadn’t forgot.
Because the dark shadows always came back in the night.
So then, in a small craft in the strange sudden storm,
She made a decision and acted alone.
The distant safe shore seemed further than ever
and the sky grew darker. The wind sighed and blew wilder.
Her muscles strained and screamed with the pain.
Cold water mixed with fresh tears, in the hard pounding rain
and she leaned and pulled in the water.
Back bending, legs pushing, head bowed with a prayer
As she pulled in vain in the water, all time seemed suspended.
Heavy, heavy, the boat struggled deep in the water
With the deadhead shackled behind her.
It dragged the boat down, and the waves grew stronger
They splashed beside and behind her, the way seemed much longer.
Like a drunken sailor after a drought, the boat staggered,
Raging down a rain-drenched alley, in some old wartime harbour.
Her heart pounded madly and more tears ran down
Her face, as she fought the boat and the weight that hauled behind her.
“Let it go.”
The voices in her head shouted.
“Let it be. Who would know?”
She was alone in the storm that had spouted
From out of the west and brought to recall
the glorious stories of the past that collided.
With fate and the weather that strange day on the lake.
She’d been stopped by the deadhead she’d encountered that day.
But what about later? If left, what would come after?
While it floated below the surface like a sleeping torpedo
If it remained, there would certainly be a disaster.
So she rowed the boat in the morning.
She dragged the log like a second boat anchor.
It bounced and it rolled and it pulled like a tanker.
The struggling boat nearly tipped and went under.
Still, she rowed through the storm and rowed through the rain
Rowed through the wind and rowed through the waves
that filled the boat with water that came up to the seat — almost.
And dragged the deadhead behind her.
Then remembered her father’s words as if his pale ghost
Rode straight and strong in the boat right beside her.
“Never give up. Life is precious.”
She took a knife to the boat anchor under the seat, and tossed its bulk over.
It sank like a stone and she knew she was right
To lighten the load and keep up the fight.
And when the shore came it was sudden.
Crunching aground on solid sand bottom.
Hardened hands hauling rope in, lungs gasping for air,
her work was done.
The enormous log she’d dragged, was finally set free.
Then, safely secured, with strong metal chains,
with the help of the afternoon people,
To a tall, sturdy ancient pine tree.
Like a bridge it lay between water and land.
The day lay ahead — the dreams were set free.
And the lake had been hers in the morning.
Sharon Frayne is an award-winning novelist, poet, and short story writer whose work has been
recognized by the CBC. Formerly a high school English and Visual Art teacher and
administrator, she’s published in DarkWinter Literary, CommuterLit, Agnes and True, Uproar,
the Ekphrastic Review and numerous anthologies. She’s the author of Caught Between the Walls
(Bygones Publishing), set in Niagara-on-the-Lake, The Sound of a Rainbow (Latitude46
Publishing) and the forthcoming Rainbow Fire (2027) and Webs: Tales of Survival and Practikal
Magick (2027)..
Niagara Falls by Karl Bodmer, 1830s Image courtesy of the Library of Congress
Niagara, farewell ! I have lingered with pleasure
Beside the white spray of thy glittering wave,
I have heard the wild notes of the fisherman’s measure,
And wandered, at eve, by the lone Indian grave.
‘Twill be long ere I visit thy loved scenes, enchanted,
And listen again to the wild torrent’s note,
Ere I stray by the ruins tradition has haunted,
Or hear musick’s strain o’er the cataract float.
Farewell to Niagara ! when far from its waters
I still shall remember the pleasant scenes past,
When the roseate smiles of Colombia’s daughters
Gave wings to the moments that hastened so fast.
I love thee when red with the beams of the morning,
I love thee when sparkling beneath the bright star ;
Thy voice in its thunder, so solemn and warning,
I’ll treasure in mem’ry when distant afar.
Farewell to Niagara ! its beauty and grandeur,
Its silver streams gushing beneath the bright moon,
All now are before me, enchanting in splendour,
They’ll fade from my glances, reluctant, too soon.
I love thee in every form thou present’st me,
In calm, and when wild tempests o’er thee play ;
I leave thee, I leave thee, and yet it repents me
To quit thy blue waters for many a day.
Source: The Craftsman, Volume First ; for 1829-30. Rochester: E.J. Roberts, 1829. At the head of the title: From the Boston Statesman
In a realm of song and shine,
Where God’s sweetest wild flowers twine,
By Niagara’s singing stream,
Last night in a golden dream,
Wandered I, while at my side
Was a laughing maid, blue-eyed.
Spun from the silk of the corn
Were her tresses, waist length worn;
Fragile, as small pinkest shells
Her wee ears; like jingling bells
Tinkling in the soul of me
Her pure laugh of ecstacy.
Underneath the blossoming boughs
Of the locust, tender vows
Once again our young hearts made;
While the violins that played
Of the breeze, through blooms above,
Thrilled our souls with God’s first love
Source: Tom Lloyd Finlayson. Songs of Niagara Frontier and Other Poems; Autographed by the Author. St. Thomas, Sutherland Press, Limited. n.d.
Judging from the locations mentioned in the poems in this pamphlet it seems that Finlayson spent his childhood in Fort Erie, Ontario.
