a voice that didn’t need a mic
booming across prairie bluffs
bald head and beard
as if he just stepped off a schooner
he sang of the sea and the road
of lines on a face and lines on a map
of a Canada we knew but didn’t know
as if we needed a prophet
with eyes sharp and clear
he envisioned a path and took it
never wavering or faltering (or so it seemed)
as if each song would be his last
until one day it was
and all we can do
is continue his song to sing
so that his voice will always ring
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