Hazelton, B.C.


Chiseled stone mountain,
brooding,
in clouded mist,
over totem and lodge,
over shanty and shack,
where old loves,
tattered treaties,
back to back,
mend and break again.

Where families still mass
and scatter
like clouds of birds,
down misty years.

This mountain has not counted
her winters,
nor the nations that have played
at her feet.

Her razor craigs still slash
lowering clouds,
her ramparts of granite
still dust with snow,
still loom over cedar and pine
on hills below.

Still silently circle
clearings of weed,
scattered with broken
rusting machinery,
old memory,
a little from each century.

Remembering
the raiding warrior
totem carver
canoe trader
paddle wheel steamer
payday gambler
pack train and miner,
the preacher, the potlatch,
the pioneer,
they've all stopped here.

Stopped where yet flows
the river round
the outskirts of Hazelton.

Where still, the salmon swim to spawn,
stilll, the tourist plys his lens,
still, the dealer gambles on,
still, the worshipper amens,
still, beneath this mountain lies
the scattered dreams
of paradise.


by Charles Van Gorkom