By Tony Peneff, Chilliwack, BC

That wood,
That hewn oak,
That has keeled  New World’s sons to Norman shores.
From  Eastern townships, Western Plains,
in barks across the sea.
It is a call to colours,
that rise in green, and fall in red.
A stand against the breach,
Leaned against a raging wind.
Pressed into the ground
khaki-ed bodies nest,
under, yet- to- be- quercian pyres, away from the wailing cry..
Waiting for the command to burst.

In this nest, a clutch of seeds are found,
familiar, home found.
From  blasted and shorn boughs these acorns have fallen,
into pockets, mis- placed
scattered, and stored.
But not forgotten.
To be planted
To rise and stand,
in wind-erring line again.
In  silent requiem,
A break against the storm