by David Solway

It’s only boring if you’re looking for mountains.
Otherwise, you’ll see much to revel in, scenes

emerging from discriminate particulars,
a valley riven out of limestone scree, plains

running to distance, like a landing strip for wind.
The thick moraines have broken up to Tindall stone

and stands of dogwood put on a spectral grace.
Wheatships sail by, and pressing down upon the grain,

skies so low it seems the prairie’s heaved and buckled
and miles of flatland can’t be told from cloud ravines.

Light-and-shadow patches rise in dunes and hillocks
and every river calls the bluff of this terrain.

The night is wide and offers space for dreaming in.
The day is heavy with the solar weight of barns.