for T. P. Flanagan br br We have no prairies br To slice a big sun at evening-- br Everywhere the eye concedes to br Encrouching horizon, br br Is wooed into the cyclops' eye br Of a tarn. Our unfenced country br Is bog that keeps crusting br Between the sights of the sun. br br They've taken the skeleton br Of the Great Irish Elk br Out of the peat, set it up br An astounding crate full of air. br br Butter sunk under br More than a hundred years br Was recovered salty and white. br The ground itself is kind, black butter br br Melting and opening underfoot, br Missing its last definition br By millions of years. br They'll never dig coal here, br br Only the waterlogged trunks br Of great firs, soft as pulp. br Our pioneers keep striking br Inwards and downwards, br br Every layer they strip br Seems camped on before. br The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage. br The wet centre is bottomless.