When the summer warmth fades to winter’s chill,
My heart seeks the sentimental to its detriment.
And the memories fall with the snow.
A Thursday night in St John’s,
Icons, scoundrels and minstrels,
You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
August on a Halifax pier and a cold pint of Keith’s.
Youth and time on our side, dimly aware of
Our whole lives ahead.
Feeling like a kid again in Charlottetown,
Or surprising a friend in Fredericton,
Decades discussed in a minute.
Silence to take your breath away,
And a feeling of insignificance,
Demanding a piece of your soul on the Taiga.
Freezing rain driving in sideways from the
Big lake as you cling to the cliffs,
In a place as wild as Patagonia.
A quiet sadness garnished with a quieter despair,
Lays upon the reservation in the Stony Country,
While the glory of the Aurora shimmers in Revelation.
The wickedest blizzard I’ve ever seen,
A teacup of snow and a howling wind.
Never thought I’d be glad to see Regina.
A wide open country, up against the Front Range,
A hard people, warmed with a smile.
And a little bit of crazy.
A bar fight in Dawson avoided with a laugh.
Stale beer and soup in the drifts of Eagle Plains.
A drive within a mile of the land of Ice and Ghosts.
Tea and scones in the warmth of the Pacific sun,
With the realization that this is the best of us,
A thing that won’t be seen again, at the end at the West.
Sentimental to a fault. The chill in the air brings it on.
Perhaps the deep buried soul of an old Yorkshireman is to blame.
But this country was a proper adventure.
By W.N. Branson
