Thoughts While Climbing Mount st. Patrick Poem by Raymond Farrell

Steadily, I climbed up the St. Patrick range
We call them mountains here
In British Columbia that would sound strange
Each hill being less than 1400 feet
Unseasonably warm for a late fall day
I took my time to let the sun
Soothe me as I made my way
Every maple retaining leaves
Had turned dull and brown
At each vantage point gained
I'd pause and look down
There were dabs of yellow on every hill
Evidently, the birches had their leaves still
Compared to the maples they're small
Yet manage to keep their leaves all fall
Something about the glory of the great
Always resplendent but doesn't last
Humility is a far better state
In which to have out lot cast.

Why is it I'm a man
That prefers the rolling countryside
Was depressed by the prairies
For the two weeks I tried
To learn to love its vastness
I grew more stir crazy by the day
For all my wanting to I couldn't stay
But I have cousins from the West
Given the choice of hill, mountain or plain
Love and cherish the flat land best
Not long away they have to go back again
Must be a quirk I don't understand
You grow close to the land
Something about it draws you back
Be it in the blood
Or be it a good home
Whatever it is about this rolling countryside
I have no urge to roam.