In the Long Dry Grass (poem)

In the Long Dry Grass

I walk on the dry grass between

the abandoned railway tracks and the grain elevator.

Golden and crackling under my boots,

I settle down on its weak hands.

It folds under my weight,

cradling the forlorn.

I lived on these prairies, as a child,

my eyes well up as they used to,

in the warm winds of midday.

I worked alongside my Father

in the fields, driving truck or tractor.

He died when I was only eight, encephalitis.

The hull of the old Wheat Pool elevator

towers stately behind me,

winds whining through the old structure:

a cry of protest at being abandoned.

Its old doors flap shut,

trying to attract attention, incensed.

Aspen and Elm leaves, 
combed by the wind’s fingers above me.

The afternoon sun burns overhead,

a semi-trailer sweeps by the edge of town

sending up plumes.

We say nothing, the Cenotaph and I.

C.G. Bateman-Ezra