Tayu Hayward Photography

On the banks of the Yakoun, the silent waters glide by
and at night you hear it, the lone corvid's cry
amongst the spruce and soft ferns where it first learned how to fly

the breath of the River, a touch of salt to the tongue
its rising ebb and sinking flow, alive with tidal lung
this place of unceasing renewal, where nothing dies young

and between the mosses and mists, ancient stories spun,
of Haida and Raven and the Stolen Sun
for the People of these isles, their keeper - the Chosen Ones

these islands dripping resonant with spirit and sound
the Sacred Codes once banished, here still found
for the land they tread lightly as they worship the ground

of potlach feasts and totem raisings that persist
a culture born of plenty, the most revered in their midst
to which White Man came armed with their crosses and fists

a Pain they've endured for far too long, their tongue forbidden
their sacred dances and dress hushed and hidden
to say nothing of giving blankets knowingly pox-ridden

Yet the majority still refrain that it's time to move on
but what of the oceans we've overdrawn
the giant groves and healthy communities - human and non - all but gone?


So it is for First Peoples everywhere, from Australia to Haida Gwaii
and behind them we come turning Eden to a sty
then have the gall to wonder why...

On the banks of the Yakoun, the silent waters glide by
and at night you hear it, the lone corvid's cry
the Golden Spruce felled where it first learned how to fly