Altona Collegiate - Green and Gold Yearbook (Altona, Manitoba Canada)

Page 24 text:

THE RIVER WHAT IS OURS Ours: The miles and miles of slope and sage and Rolling ridge; The great canyons and giant cliffs and Isolated, noble monuments; The lacy lakes and glistening waterfalls And dark rivers with mistic thunder of waters. Ours always: The seasons, the shrill icy blasts The intense cold, the steely skies and Crisping snow; The thawing mud and the bleached grass Swept by spring storms; The pleasant skies and balmy summer breezes Playing in the verdant growth; The glorious golden autumn When it’s always afternoon and time stands still. Ours: The time to repose and contemplate Nature’s continuous harmony; The purer thought and keener mind Evoked by nature’s pure aesthetic inspira¬ tion; The time to think and act before Our thinking puts an end to doing; The responsibility, yea, the duty to keep the earth And it’s sweet affluence; A world of mounting momentum and increasing speed And accuracy. But... Let our inner thoughts, our purer thoughts, Slow down and find a way to conserve the natural earth. — Norman Schmidt A river left the mountains And grew as it sucked dry the easy flow of plains. It raced along its rut taking slow bites From imprisoning banks of dirt. With courseless energy and uncertain fury It swung frothy aims in defiance, Struck with sudden savagery: Caught an unwary tree, Pulled down a bridge, Engulfed a highway, Smothered a nearby huddling field. Then strong-backed cliffs stepped out And with unfaltering conscience Cramped in the stream Until its surly waters Sank beneath the dark-waved sea. — Jim Edwards DISASTER AT SEA The foghorn sounds its lonely wail. The moon retreats from sight; Slowly the wispy ghost-like veil Spreads thickly through the night. From out at sea the fishing fleet Returns to end the day, And sailors rubbing tired feet Await their hard-earned pay. But now the urgent call is raised, One ship is still at sea; The sailors only listen, dazed By the sound of the lashing sea. The captain and his crew set sail To help their comrades in their plight; Suddenly, they hear a dying wail, As the doomed ship slowly sinks from sight. The foghorn sounds its lonely wail. The moon retreats from sight; Slowly the wispy ghost-like veil Spreads thickly through the night. •— Carol Schroeder 22