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.