New Occidental Poetry

Across the Plains

Marching, marching, across the plains
They are, in fact
Not at all very flat,
Rolling, undulating seas of green.
Oceans upon which wildlife surf
Endlessly grazing upon the turf
Here we walk,


very small

Past burned trees, wooded copses
All that we have upon our back
Something primal lurks beyond each crest
Always the horizon there, a luring test

Arthur Powell