Wilderness by Ian McCallum

Have we forgotten

That wilderness is not a place,

But a pattern of the soul

Where every tree, every bird and beast

Is a soul maker?

 

Have we forgotten

That wilderness is not a place

But a moving feast of the starts,

Footprints, scales and beginnings?

 

Since when did we become afraid of the night

And that only the bright starts count?

Or that our moon is not a moon

Unless it is full?

 

By who’s command

Were the animals

Through groping fingers,

One for each hand,

Reduced to the big and little five?

 

Have we forgotten

That every creature is within us

Carried by tides

Of earthly blood

And that we named them?

 

Have we forgotten

That wilderness is not a place

But a season

And that we are in its final hour.