Reaching the River

Reaching the river, we stop
To take a second look.

Wide-open spaces that plant themselves
On the back of the eye;

Stark animal images graven
Into the horizon like

A footprint in wet concrete.
Pity the poor dead women of the town,

That their eyes are stitched shut
By telephone wire. The telegraph poles

(which are the stakes where we shall be burnt)
Impale the sky as totems would.

Fat black crows hustle the vista into order.
This landscape of our mothers is brutal -

But calm is to be found on the pebbly roads.
All we need now is a minister.

Shaking off our clothes, we diffuse, we melt
Into our surroundings, and slip into the river.

We will see this place again
If we have not come too far already.

(1989)