From GATHERING FIRE by Helen Hawley, published by Thistledown Press, 1977

CONCERTO

I.

Down the line
prairie spreads,
levelling dimensions,
reaching distance
until the wind,
and the wind is always.
Sun, a thousand shades of dry, dun, sage,
raw sienna burns the crackling sod.
Hawk in air
tips fragile balance through the upcurrents,
hare headlong below,
running the lines between the wild flax
from the here wind to the ghost of wind that was.
Shadow tilts, treeless plains flow
under the revelling meadowlark, seas of grass blow
under the bluer light.

One by one the train drops its towns
down the line:
Kenaston, Lanigan, Mozart, Netherhill,
Outlook where the hare was caught
and Piapot. Narrow guage defines a progress,
so they say; at any rate
there’s where the main streets begin.
Around and around and around,
the wind and the hare,
the hare in the red flowers,
buffalo in picture frames,
and the iron horse screams in the night.

II.

Lone Man, walk on water. Follow
your shadow, the emblem of the tracks behind you
marks your uncertainty; turn back and trace
the steps to the bloodred flower.
There is your last and first footprint beside it.
Self is whole, and earth extends self
into its fullest being; such grace
is never given, Lone Man. Part of self, lost,
withers and fades to spirit.
(Oh white in the moonlight, hares sing of liberty.)
Wisagatcak, Takuskansan and far
Pasikola turning white in autumn, so far —
claws strung on time past or time forgotten.

Begotten from flower or water, Lone Man,
make of yourself a snow rabbit;
all the animals are whitening, and Hoita
is drumming them north. Do you hear the thunder
of wheels on rail, do you see
steam and the pale ghosts
reaching above the timberline?
Menahka, I was. I ran
where no lines were. Only winds,
and the winds are everywhere.

III.

Railroad passes the towns:
Quill Lake, Rabbit Lake, St. Marthe Rocanville,
grey ghosts of  westward ho; Tisdale
or Unity may still abide, but rails slide
windward, Vidora.
Hares run the rails in straight lines
ghost by ghost, race through  the wild flax,
or wheat may sprout between each tie,
a trick of virtue. Was it all worth it,
now that the trains no longer,
and the towns no longer,
and the streets slip back to earth?

Every search for self
redefines the world.
Finding our lack of limits,
we progressively eliminate
the limits others tried to set.
Who knows what is ever lost or gained?
Spirit becomes self
and the winds blow all around,
for freedom is a lonely business,
passing what-has-been-given
from previous confinements.
Down the line
prairie spreads,
levelling dimensions.