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Here the space pours constantly, a storm
huge and passionless as winter,
dropping ravines down through the mountains,
conjuring forests taller than myth or magic.
The Canadians seem slightly drunk on it,
expanding to fill it – but they never can –
talking loudly at all times – but answer never comes,
for boundaries so distant hold no echoes.
Their towns are full of starkened men, bitten within
by the unbelievability of what they have.
Uncertainty flickers through them. Borne to the narrow lanes
of older continents,
the space of fairy tales falls daily on them now
like the snow,
Lingering in their eyes.
Friendship though is their supreme talent,
they trust each other in the huddles of harsh winters,
talking freely in the trains,
swapping stories of survival.
They need to. For they still don’t know :
Is this one country – theirs?
Or is it many lands, ungovernable,
a kingdom of the wind?
But then, who cares? – as anyone can see
It’s a wonderful place to live.