The last fort

Your ridges distant now
no longer viewed from windscreens
of long distance riders
in chariots of plastic and alloy
The Fraser seeks it’s way
no serpent’s turns
she bleeds slow to the Pacific
Berry bogs spring in her wake
At Wagner’s Farm the high ground
third tier up, above the pines
South and west can see forever
In morning mists watch the valley
This last vision of childhood
with no camera the memory safe

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