East of the port, the gaunt euclidean town
At the edge of the prairie sky, at the venturous end
Of the sea’s last traffic with the climbing land –
You come to hills. The spruce and rock steep down

To the mountain beach. Inlet and channel and reef
Return, in the slow dance of the land’s turning;
Shadowed and clear and dark in the desolate raining
Of lost and shadowy light, and the lost brief

Moment; flashed and repeated in the drumming wheels
Repeat…repeat…repeat; the flashing earth
Streams in its rhythm; and the moment’s breath
Is time’s deliberate breath. The wheeling hills

Drift with its tide…The hills and the quilted flock
Of the sky, and a gull, remotely flying
And stilled in flight…
Time, and the granite flowing
Of stonegrey water and precambrian rock.

© Harry Bruce, All Rights Reserved