SUNDAY MORNING

Sunday morn my memory box

  Opens as before,

Recalling gentle days of time,

   Treading ancient paths once more.

On dusty trails that hoped to be,

   A driving road in time,

We hopped and skipped those windblown paths,

    Left the Sweet Grass Hills behind.

Their distance nears a hundred miles

   Their gentle slopes bring calm,

And marks the line to USA,

   To share their healing balm. 

Orion’s constellation joins,

   With Taurus bands as king,

Announcing end of Aprils’ mark,

    With twinkling stars of spring.

  

Spring runoff rushed from Cyprus Hills,

   As farmers sloped their land,

Draining waters to Pakowki Lake

    With wood gate tools in hand.

 Now come with me to Sunday school,

    The Kingbirds urged us on,

To hide their sacred nesting place,

     While meadowlarks sang their songs.

 To west a gently sloping hill,

   Swept golden acres of flowers,

That edged up to a poplar grove,

    That led to still more bowers.

Farmers built the one-room school,

   That served for church as well,

A barn for horseback rider folks,

    When teachers rang the bell.

 Mrs. Freed would play the organ,

    Frank Weeks led bass in song,

Weeks’ descendants over a hundred years,

    Still live there and carry on.

(Last yearAlberta bestowed them special 100 year honours.)