This poem is taken from Stand 237, 21(1) April - June 2023.

Fred Johnston My Father at Niagara
How he came to be there was a navigation upwards into light
Both of us framed with our backs to the lens in Kodak black-and-white
How he came to be there with his son in such roaring liquid light:

We’re leaning on an iron rail peering into a madness of water
Fragile as pufflings on a  ripped cliff, sure of falling, the candour
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