We have no more heroes

We have no more heroes
To carve up the skies of adulthood
Everywhere else, children look up
Out across the horizon,

Run through fields of mysteries.
Once grown, this wonder
Is lost inside a photograph
That bog of the mind.

Canadian Northerlies
Shake mortal flesh,
Shivering down to the bone.
Out of the soil coils a cone

Wrapped up into cyclone,
Cuts through wood and stone
That stood for a hundred years
Left splintered like a dream.

Memories frame the fields
Of visions that foreshorten
As limbs grow limber, topheavy,
And buckle under the timber.

Only the charred frame
Of a barn remains standing,
As men rebuild uphill,
nestled in a gap in the treeline,

Inwards and upwards,
Ever closer to their maker.
Each year they grow taller
Until all at once they falter.