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JACK MINER’S BIRD SANCTUARY
By Jack Herity, Belleville, Ontario
[Welland Tribune October 6, 1943]
He must pack a heap of pleasure
Underneath his shaggy dome;
Now it’s getting on to autumn
And his birds are coming home.
It must stir up all his senses
In a kind of inside grin
When he gazes down the Southway and
Sees his squadrons winging in.
Must be like a mighty merchant,
When his ships come one by one,
To the harbor where there’s quiet
And retreat from pirate’s gun.
Pirates! That’s the right name for us,
Oh, I’m guilty, same as you,
For I’ve often sent them tumbling,
Broken, tattered, from the blue.
I have lain for hours listening
For that throbbing cry,
And to see an old commander
Lead his flock across the sky;
But-well there above the fireplace
You can see my guns today,
And they’re mighty ornamental
Since I went down Kingsville way.
Angels used to be right common,
If I believe what I’ve heard say;
But a scientist will tell you
We don’t have such things today.
Still I guess if we could see things
In a sort of spirit light,
We would find Jack Miner’s raiment
Is a robe of shining white.
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