Brief

FRANK HARDING

I have no fear of whiskeyjacks or jets or snow,
things that have their home in the sky.
It is the earth that clutches me, that waits
for me to lie down and feed its seeds.
My home is there finally, a thin white line
in limestone strata, a neocene fragment
to love the fearful home - granite hills
and dark ravines, tectonic moans and
pulsings, holding, a lover never spent,
a mother in constant labour. Peaks thrust up
and wear away, and the things I love the most
are those most awful and enduring.