Neverfoundland (Poetry)

Those mountains can’t be found on any map —
no one has drawn their outlines — guessed or gauged
their height or how they change in slanting light —
how colours blend and contours merge — each stage
a meditation on a country dreamed —
lush with greenwood valleys — silver-streamed.

No footprint ever found its winding tracks.
No voice disturbed the peaceful breaking dawn.
No lamp vied with the moon and star-filled night.
No human sullied Nature — a land sworn
to wilderness — a haven kept from view
from those who would exploit it — only few

are they who might imagine it as real —
out there somewhere — veiled by swirling mist —
those few who trust their deepest instincts feel
such an unspoilt land might yet exist —
they paint it warm in fantasy and vow
to guard its secret — make believe for now

they are the only ones who’ve glimpsed through cloud
a vision other-worldly — Eden-pure
with sweeping forests — tangled — stretching proud
to wide horizons never touched by war —
all undiscovered — unexplored — unclaimed —
perfect — lost in legend — and so-named.