AT THE OLD MARKER NEAR LACOLLE, QUEBEC
Broken
fences mark a time,
When
men paced off the yards of pine.
Confident,
they drew their lines,
Borderlands
of hearts and minds.
Rusted
wire strung by hand,
Casts
a shadow on the land.
Cars
of teens cross after dark,
To
see the line and make their mark.
Poorly
lit and ill-defined,
Confusion
over where’s the line?
Entire
townships redefined,
Patriot
Acts for the non-aligned.
The
pointless flag, the unread sign,
A
no man’s land of man’s design.
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