I stood upon a golden hill,

rolling land sparsely treed.

A lake smooth as tinted silk

reflected all that I could see.

So still the lake but in my mind

I see the Paddle Wheeler’s wake

and on its decks bold people stand,

beside the trade goods, piled high.

 

This was their only highway then

Before the railway and the road.

Which born of steam, mother like

sacrificed and now long gone.

Steam whistles thrill my inner thoughts,

still conscious of those times long past.

I now see Diesel Engines strain,

along the margin of the lake.

 

There, like memories of older days,

reflected in the lakes smooth face.

The freight cars clang on shrieking wheels.

Good and bad and endless stream.

Upon my hill, beside the road.

I stand in awe of men long ceased.

Who by their vision joined this land

in links of bright steel, West to East.

 
 
David Garlick, Kamloops, April, 1993