poetry by Wayne Ray

The Light Went Out Archibald Lampman

Oh the land that God made
precambrian and hard of life,
a future rose after the permafrost
wind blows the Peace River dry.

Oh Archibald, how the green trees climb
out of the ice flows when an Innuit smiles
and the sun shines on the last spike
as we say goodbye to this divided land.

Snakes of Drumlins in your hair and a
Hudson Bay blanket on your trappers back
writing some damn epic poem on birch
bark skin with a charcoal stick.

Where is the poetry of our precambrian years?
Has the Great Depression dust filled our ears?
Are we lost in the barrens, Archibald and
cannot see the wind when the light goes out.

 


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