Impressions
At the west end, the limestone bluff is worn
with worship, a millennium of feet
drawn together towards towers ever
collapsing and rebuilt from fire and flood
and lightning strike.
Desire paths trace the snow
mechanical erosion of our feet,
reminders that they did not build this place
for the likes of us.
Inside, the Deans’ Eye bathes
us pallid blue and grey. The glass is old,
Medieval so they say
It reminds me
Of Wanuskewin, close to Saskatoon,
Not the Visitors Centre, that can wait,
The Buffalo Stone—
Look towards the east,
And you won’t touch the earth again until
You get to Russia.
—Worn down with pleasure
of ten thousand itches scratched, now silent on
the Bald Ass Prairie. Fuzzymandias.
When it reaches a certain age the glass
Begins to sink. Clamped in a cage to stall
Its slow descent.
“Don’t get too comfortable
All of your stuff must fit a banker’s box”
Past the bones of St Hugh (what’s left of him)
You’d be hard-pressed to miss the Imp. Standing
petrified on the north side of the choir.
The snow crusts hard here, so that one alone
Can never make much of an impression.
But each time April (with his showers sweet)
Melts the ice, turning desire trails to mud
The northern prarie bears a medicine wheel.
Yet still the Imp remains. Forever set in stone
and frozen by his choice. Now singled out
with a new a spotlight
—For the tourists.
Ben Blyth writes from Treaty 7 Territory, where he works as an Adjunct Assistant Professor of English. He earned his Ph.D. at the University of Calgary in 2024. His poetry explores the sublime/mundane, pastoral/urban, tenderness/ brutality, and present/past; with a keen sense of form and an eye for striking imagery. Blyth’s work plays with nationality. liminality, and uncertainty in a fresh and poignant way.
Amethyst Review 