On the plains,
Dust balls blow,
Perennial weeds turn over.
Long grass billowing,
Prairie fowl scratch at bare earth.
Bison roam free again.
A sky low and sullen,
Gathering storm clouds or a hot sun beating down;
Precious rain is rare.
The rush of a train in the distance: no stop here.
Freight moves at pace.
The faint cry of Indians past,
The promise of new lands for new folk: settlers since long gone.
Empty prairies left to reform
At last.
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When I was kid I loved the Laura Ingles Wilder 'Little House on the Prairie' books. I used to dream of living on the barren North American plains, forging a life as a new settler. I started to think about the prairie last night; I don't know why.
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It has always been my mum's favourite, together with Little Women. My mum has had such a simpler, much more complicated, childhood than I have had. At times, I think about it, and I am sure I wouldn't swap, and then I am sure I am a coward, because childhood and life in general were hard for my parents, born in the mid '40s, but it all sounds so much healthier too, when they talk about it.
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