Poem from the Cree

Poem from the Cree

The Cree have retreated from the streets.
Their violinist has taken time out, leaving
his last notes dancing from a street lamp.
Only the Fire-Brave remains, inhaling thick
black oily smoke. He juggles twin balls of fire.

Bones gather together to gather dry dust. Hollow
metal buffalo: a cold wind blew and plucked out
his heart. Five climate controlled pedestrian
walkways cross the prairie, linking building
to building. A glass wheat field shimmers
and tinkles to the rhythm of air conditioning.

The black cow, cast iron hide set free from rust,
ruminates behind its plate glass window.
The night wind whisks white buffalo bones
pale across the sky. Oskana ka asasteki.

With these words, I will leave you, suddenly,
abruptly. A light going out. Now I am here.
Oskana ka asasteki. And now I too am gone.
Comment: Another Golden Oldie, re-discovered. I wrote this in Regina back in the nineties, last century, last millennium … how long ago is that? In our kitchen, an ear of wheat, purchased in the glass wheat field museum, still shelters in its gilded frame, a memento from that trip. So many memories, so many pictures, drifting … just drifting.

27 thoughts on “Poem from the Cree

  1. Reblogged this on rocksandbones and commented:
    Rocks and Bones are what is all comes down to. I love this poem by exiled Welshman, Roger Moore…bred from the Welsh limestone but in this stark and haunting bone-scattered poem you can hear the fading voices of Cree ghosts…

    Liked by 1 person

    • A great many of the old spiritual places have that haunting quality about them. There is a spirit floating in the air and if you are alert you can feel it. Sometimes it seizes you and takes you over for a moment or two. This, for me, is the spirit of place.


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