The bulldozers have come and gone.
Over days and weeks, they have
razed much of my childhood,
erased every trace — house, barn,
garage, every outbuilding.
We inter our own history
under the sham mound of progress.
Every tree and shrub that burst
with songs of finch and thrush.
Animal paths that interlaced
the woods and held together each
small biotic world, connected
with its neighbour.
Every fallen log, every hillock –
abandoned beaver dam,
or forgotten aboriginal grave —
levelled, each depression filled,
evened, to form a seamless bed
for some yet-to-be-determined
cash crop. Feed the future
with obliterated history.
I hold these memories
the bulldozers could not find.
Each image will be buried with me.
Who then will remember –
now that the bulldozers have
come and gone?