The warmth of the summer sun,
Fades as it sets below the mountain,
Alongside the lake,
In the Okanagan.
Sitting on the bench,
Ice cream melts,
Before you can eat it,
In the perfect summers eve.
Golden shoes,
On a child,
Who will never run,
Pushed along by his mother.
Remind one,
Of what’s just below,
The veneer of this world,
And the heart aches in a way that can’t be expressed.
The same way it does,
For a nation that,
Will never run again,
Subsumed to the diktat of the PMO.
Golden hopes wearing golden shoes,
Remind one,
Of what’s at stake,
On the perfect summer eve.
By W.N. Branson
