a gift of gratitude
Loam rich with decomposition of bone, marrow, blood, flesh, sinews, sweat.
Echoes of guns, screams, tramping boots fading with time
The sun of this Canada does not span a continent from sea to sea
Does not floodlight golden carpeted canola fields framed in mountain shadows
Does not reflect diamond waves breaking against shores
This sun warms poppied fields whose blood red blossoms
Tiptoe across silent graves.
Winds winging across our Canada, over oceans, over channels
Weep on this Canada
Make verdant Hill 145, disguising wounds, camouflaging scars, silencing exploding shells.
This Canada a sanctuary
Of silent prayers, of memories, of unrealized dreams
Rising heavenward in marble
A young woman forever
Looks down on purple hazed villages in valleys
Cows in pastures, young men sowing seeds
and mourns her nation’s loss.
* * *
These who are ours lie buried
in this Canada
our blood red maple leaf clings listlessly
against the flag pole here, mute testimony to
fading memories wisping across this land – this Canada
A part but apart
Away. Not home.