Northeast of Calabogie
is a fast moving stream
with clear water
cascading over black rocks
where skilled anglers
can hook brook trout
maybe even a pound each
word has it
if the old man
who owns the land dies
his family will sell
to bush butchers
Who'll run skidders
back and forth
hauling out timber
no trout will survive
in the muddied waters
apparently where there's profit
there is often loss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem