N is for Nomads
a note of interest, - one in three of Iran's nomadic homes has a Cell phone.
The desert-born may yearn for desert places,
The yellow drifting sand, possessive sun,
As seamen crave the wide untrammeled spaces
Between the continents to which they run.
But I was born where woods and waters mingle
A land of contrasts pleasant to the eye,
Where cultured fields and intervening dingle*
With wrinkled unkempt mountain ranges vie.
Yet desert-born and I alike will face
What Time must bring us in its tireless flight, -
Obscurity or glory or disgrace, -
The unexpected star, - the sudden night!
* an Irish term denoting a 'fort', such as were found in this country in early years.
This poem Nomads is by The Prospector, and that is all I can tell you about it, or the author, except that it is on the last page of a book of western poetry entitle 'Lonely Trails', covered in red leather, well thumbed, belonging to my husband, printed in Victoria, B.C. some time in the first half of the last century and containing other poems of local interest in this valley and the Okanagan.
Perhaps somebody out there knows the identity of The Prospector?