I keep meaning to put this poem here, written for the occasion of my ordination, April 2015, by my brother, Peter Dawson Buckland. You may find it in his book, Heartwood.


Downstream two sandstone pillars,
collapsed legs of an argonath
who shouldered raucous trains:
people, lumber, coal, steel, gas, and oil.
Time brought him down.
Those pillared feet sprout knotweed and reeds.
A bleached sycamore reaches for clouds.
A stern-backed bald eagle alights,
hunger fortspinnung, thirsty for her
     life swimming in the
The constant stream carves a runnel near my toes,
rushing over this sandstone sheet’s lip.
In a millennia the runnel will crack
     this rock
          into being
     a new rock
          into those rocks and then
     some other rocks
          on the bed of the river
     worn to be grit surrounding the eel grass
          in the bay
     taken in to grind fish
          in the gut
     of a
Upstream a creek bends beneath black willow digits,
bringing its countertheme where it becomes river,
     undulations, ripples,
          trout scales,
     eagle’s claws,
          the river anew
          to the sky,
     to the

“Fugue” is the penultimate poem in his book, Heartwood , available through Eifrig Publishing.

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