Clearing
June 1 2010


I found a trail through the woods
under cool green trees
over fallen logs.
Bush-crashed past
pools of still black water,
in this dark sanctuary
in the heat of summer.

So the clearing was unexpected.
There was a weathered shed
slouching at one end,
with gaps between the slats of wood
where animals get in.
An abandoned house
with small stingy windows, single-pane,
an earthen floor
a dug-out basement.
And the roof beam collapsed in the middle
from heavy snow
some bitter day
one long gone winter.

There was a stone boat, full of rocks
broken, tipped,
anchored in the shallow ditch
where they were hauled.
Implements, unhitched
hand tools, rusting,
a dusty reddish-brown.
And the chassis of a cannibalized car
made of heavy gauge steel,
the way they built them before the war.
A museum of industry,
slowly reclaimed
by encroaching forest.

They tried to farm here, once
in the rocky soil
grudging summers
this far north.
Cleared
of stunted birch, reedy poplar,
burnt for warmth
in long lean months
of constant darkness.
Now overgrown
with wild flowers, feral hay.
And jack-pine, spruce
digging-in their roots
like grappling hooks.

The homesteaders hung on, as well.
Through, depression, flood
black-flies, bugs,
deer
grazing on the harvest at dawn.
What were they thinking, I thought,
as I heard the stream
burble over polished rocks,
felt the sun
soothe my weary bones.
A farm, carved out of boreal forest
through hard labour
sweat, and brawn.
Now gone,
back to nature.

And their descendants to town.
Where they tend a tidy garden,
putting in peas
as soon as the frost is out.