White is the river’s roar
in Labrador’s dark taigas.
Far away the foggy shore.
With hills between. And seas.
There is the pine wood solitary.
There is the breath of place, perpetual.
There is the fragrant, resiny bark.
There is the ripe, red berry.
There are the green lights of the cypresses,
spread out the dawn.
There are the fires of southern stars.
And hills and seas, and on and on.