They will disappear these ruins & this beauty too & this indistinguishable – I just wanted
a raw place to wander in and for them also, a random spot – you can’t find
anything in townhouses & skyscrapers – O manicured & upright dwellings – there are no
blackberries here, no sandpipers, no bullfrogs, no swallows’ nests, no dead lobsters, no
rotting fish, no old ropes or any other signs of history to speak of in copper or brick or steel
or flesh – we are afraid for the children always – in this last undeveloped zone on earth
where the final species breathe – it is not enough to have everything – nothing will soon be ours
& the ads singing haven over the barren inhabited lands will show glorious faces,
glossy hands, bright feet – these will move down the sharp delineated paths – these will not stop
to feel – the empty river groomed for them as wallpaper, as screen – its mind only
waiting for our absence.
Catherine Owen has published ten collections of poetry and three of prose. She lives by the Fraser with her cats and works in film.