Before the farmer came the white man’s voice was but still.
The red man’s land it was, as they roamed the plains planting seed and harvesting from land the golden shafts we now plough called wheat the staple crop like mother’s milk it keeps us fed and on our feet.
Their magnificence toiled under the blazing sun while painted skies reflected down on herds of buffalo they would ride o’er the plains with pride to take them down and feed their tribes and cure their hides for use and nothing wasted to the bone.
While coyotes sprang and wolves roamed in packs howling with spirits in the winds among ancient chiefs whose days were spent among their people’s guiding them with pride.
On prairies cut so fine there was a love torn between two lovers whose story was so sad and hearts torn apart for want of separation from their tribes yet this one sad brave he was to die and his white horse roams forever more the open range looking for his lost bride he so wanted to be with but died before his time on Bended knee.
With so many glories of the dying day the memory of the brave who passed away such a grave theme yet a sweet dream held by all to this very day on the Canadian sunset prairies, may beauty bound sweet destiny of all eternal dead and may we never forget the blood that shed from spear and bow while Winchester was coming closer to their tally.
Ages came and went, the red man longed to dwell between the mountains and the plains the deer and elk were plenty and the buffalo roamed free and mighty and fed a race of people who today are still among us as brothers and sisters.
While the arrows aim no longer as the bow is buried with the shields of all the braves who roamed our mighty rivers, plains and forests.
We stand upon braves ashes in the twilight and sunset of the beam while off springs of their race will carry the songs sung and dance painted face around the night fires with their bands all over our fine land.
No longer do we have the war songs but the sweet melody of peace with tongues tasting the bannock and smoke rings circled their souls for peace remembering the old tales talked by elders of better days that now the plough gives to harvest and war is but a shadows memory never forgotten yet given way to rituals and dance.
I say farewell to the setting sun yet knowing you will come again with other changes of cities sprung and new empires built on solid ground that our ancestors left us from the plough of old and savage men of both white and red who roamed our great lands yet never shall see their likes again.
Glistening wheat rose tall among the sun fest while the sunflower hung its weary head in defeat at the feet of insects while they lick of her leaf and pluck sweet seeds beneath their jagged wing.
The ever-present silver tractor in the field bogs down with heavy loads of corn freshly swathed and packed neatly on its bed while the coyote calls and gulls soar and dive to pick up the falling nibs left torn from cob’s on tumbled soil so freshly turned while birds in flight delight their beaks with these tasty treats.
A farmer’s hand guides the wheel and gently ploughs and overturns the black soil so given him as ghosts of mighty warriors refresh his soil from their graves buried there so long ago from a winter’s snow so costly did they lose yet not for purpose unknown they feed the land that once was theirs with sorrow, now they weep and feel the farmer’s guiding hand over fields of whispers from the past.
© Copyright Vincent Moore 2010. All Rights Reserved.