Crossing

Here's where they indented the riverbank,

cut away grass and wild roses stitching

the hill together, took sand for concrete,

exchanged Gabriel's Ferry

for Gabriel's Bridge,

flatboat and cable

for sky-blue painted steel.

Here, across the river from Batoche

and what remains of Fish Creek

my brother and I would climb

the bank's cut-open face—

slipping, kicking up sand-spurts—

then scoot down the slope.

Scramble up again, slither and tumble

till feet, hands, clothes were sand-brown.

Something had happened in these hills

but the ferry was gone;

we pronounced Gabriel like an English name;

we saw only later that the bank,

overgrown again with grass

and roses, was not meant to look

like this.