We can already feel the detachment from
place,
the displacement of home, the need to
leave because of
a bond that cannot hold, a village that
cannot survive the forces
being arrayed against it: the
development schemes, the banality
that will soon encroach the natural
beauty of the gorges and
their pastoral approaches, the creative
community about to be overwhelmed
by the onslaught of exurban commuters and the monied superficialities of tourist traps.
It is never wise to make a last stand
on a landscape of sinkholes.
Friendships will survive, though some
are already dying on the vine,
others, still to come, are growing:
there are regrets and warm memories,
but the going is already in motion,
like a iceberg calving,
not yet fallen into the sea, a stately
inevitability,
far enough off that we can downsize
before packing,
the acceptance and sorrows within the erosion
of belonging.
June 2 2015
Elora
