Mount Robson broods,
As the fog gains the hand,
And the shadows lay gently,
Upon the passengers.
Discounting the value,
Of familiarity and grappling,
With the deeds and works of the past,
A nation is remade.
The clink of glasses.
Cutlery chimes, soft voices,
Discuss the ghosts of Leicester,
As Saskatchewan rolls by.
Expedients applied.
Solemn and sacred oaths forgotten,
And thousand years of please and thank you’s,
Are undone in a fortnight.
By W.N. Branson 
