Trans-Canada Tree-Way

I

Driving through Ontario in April
was like passing through a single stark contrast-

itself on itself on itself;

Naked tree on naked rock, on grey-sky hills,

With The Great Grey Tub running up it's incline,
of serpent road by serpent river,
by serpent lines of electric sliver,
by double yellow lines-
a shooting star with headlights.

Cold as a comet as we fly in The Alien
to the other side of the Canadian,
carpet of trees and rocks-

That have set themselves to wed the sky by climbing up together-
all-most out of reach of us.
Only met by each of us -
in our own way, that is shared by night and day-
sky blue, black or grey.

II

Driving through corridors of pine trees,
their evergreen robes turned up at the edge of each tier.

White Birch with leaves exhaled
hold the breath of the pine-
a breath you can see in the cold.

The highway held to the page by double yellow lines
and bordered by a set of power-lines,
that look like an electric fence to keep the trees off the road.

Waves of weeping rock hulk out at the road-side
and spill into Blind River, Cedar Creek,
and the Lakes with their shelves of ice
and garters of melting white snow shores of Spring.

Rain falls with the consistency of the visions repetition-

of pine and birch,
wet grey sky road,
bordered by set of power-line,
and the dancing of windshield wipers.

III

Somewhere in the night,
we ran out of Ontario-

Perhaps while the tyres were being changed,
and the Aborigine slept in their clear-cut reservations.

Tomorrow unfolded by the wind,
was the same highway running up our legs and through our necks
and back out the rear view vision of our eyes.

Manitoba-
Held down by that great blue eyelid
with stoned clouds and three geese per 100 mile eyelashes.

Grain silos stand as studs on a wheat belt,
their bellies filled and emptied according to our hunger for bread alone,
in prairie where no Bison roam- not even Crow-
just a land spread out
for wheat and snow,
wheat and snow,
wheat and snow...

Only a tumbleweed welcomes us in passing
as we fly through Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan...
Medicine Hat, Alberta…

CANADA!

All of it!

We chased the sun across the map,
through spaces of earth so void that they are but Scapes,
cold-scapes,
void-scapes,
and the memory of the pain,
the blood and the old ways,
are melted snow.

But the past is always present-
and it is presently open to this ending,
that is ever beginning-

That is a 2 lane highway from East to West,
from Bison to Bear.

A 2 lane highway that hits Calgary like a sigh,
and delivers you to the sight of those Rocky Mountains,
those monuments that are monuments to each others majesty.

Their white crests receding in the frost of May sun
to water their pine stubble,
and cold thirst rivers with towns in their teeth,
and clear-cut-cleft-lip mines
that run like scars in an already scarred and rugged face
of the earths jaw line.

IV

Great foreheads of rock over pine tree beards,
gods asleep under snow white hair,
and a blanket of soft grey cloud to melt the snow a little slower.

There is a consciousness beneath those prows and brows-

A love affair with wind and ice
as old as the soul that chose to inhabit this land-
This stage name province of British Columbia-

whose true name is
Wild-Beauty
Snow-Pine-Rugged
Peaks-Rocky
Mountain-Ranges,

whose virtue is the silent carpet of pine,

whose wonder is that far white peak,

whose beauty is the white turned green,

whose splendour is the White-Tail Deer a’flight,

whose unyielding wildness,
is this natural wilderness,

whose truth is truth unseen.

Whose heart is held by the old bears,
and eyes clutched by the eagle,

whose valleys yawn to the glaciers maw,
and the bow of mountain horses.

Here is where Wakan Tanka wiped his brow from east to west-
laying the land to here as wide and flat as the edge of His hand.

Here is where the Pachamama's breast does cease,
Her eyes the leaves of Yellow Birch that watch us passing through Her,
on this grey scarf with white and yellow pin-stripes,
with motorised teardrops that run to the rising sea.

V

So onward Brothers,
through the great parks,
with their mandatory pines and glacial fields,
and citadel mountains that stand in the clouds.

Avalanches of white hair tendril to the roadside
and our necks ache from craning them out the window of our wonder,
the absolute grandeur,
that holds us in a constant awe.

So you are a man here,
when you realise,
you are just a man here.

So you are a woman here,
when you realise,
your beauty is a part of here.

And when you are here you need not fear,
but welcome life,
and welcome death-
for we are free here,
on the flipside of Ontario.

We are here,
in rhythm with the rhythm.

We are here,
to set trees in the soil.

We are here,
to be eaten, to sweat, drink and toil.

We are here,
like smoke on the night,
silent and swollen,
in the absence of light.

We are here-

cold together abundant.

We are here,
the fear of our pasts redundant.

We are here.

We are here!

WE ARE HERE!

VI

So come Sisters,
let us walk from the empty breast-
that dried up drum called Medicine Lake.

Let us walk down frozen streams in gaping gorges
as the sun reinstates to us our fertility.

Let us rise as the water falls,
let us hold counsel as the spring unfurls,
and melts us into summer.

Let us hold congress with the mountains,
those masters of silent motion,
after all,
our motion has not stopped, as we continue...

So finally we come to these hills,
these graveyard nurseries with log truck coffin bearers
and bald patches patched by snow and
Pine tree congregation praying amongst the Ghost Birch naked.

Here we are Prince George-
come for our duty.

Here we are Prince George-
come to your service,

come for our time in your sun and your soil,
under the watch of your cougar and bear.

Here we are-
over the Mountain of Gods,

Here we are,
from the Prairie of Wind,

Here we are,
from the Yawn of Ontario,

Here we are,
to plant trees in your palms-

Yes,
We are here.

27/4 - 3/5/2007. Road trip. Toronto, Ontario to Prince George, British Columbia, Canada.
Benjamin W Wild © copyright 2007