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by Catherine Owen

by Catherine Owen

 

 

 

 

And here, it’s the gulls in their urban white,

Starlings on rusted lamp posts,

The occasional small hawk careening & harassed, mildly,

By a minor clutch of crows.

 

And here it’s still the tugs, dark diesel stacks rising

Above a froth of wet over the long raw booms.

But here the water is wider and historically compassed,

Here are the bisections of bridges and the timed surge

 

As trains crest the tracks in tandem, one

Chunnering into the tunnel, the other becoming

A red light, vanishing. Here is where there is no

Shipyard or blue house or ruined beach or hummingbird

 

Where there is not the first grief of you gone

And I straying by the shoreline wondering if I would live

Where I am is more distant from the salt

In the pioneer segment of the Fraser

 

Where people settled early and set up their hopes:

The manses, the schools, the churches, the jail

All referencing this system called river, river

That I have chosen, written as home & going further.