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.