Glory and splendour, they have left unto me a window in the frozen east. I look upon it as if it were an ocean, turning Burke Mountain or Sumas into seaside bluffs.
Given depth by the glowing opalescent grey ceiling that hangs over my city 6 months of the year; demarcated by the icy plateau of a temperature inversion, the illusion is maintained.
As if the gaffer used the Port’s massive red limbs as scaffolding, maintaining that movie-like light. That light where everything looks canned. I can imagine container ships from Alberta landing at Port Moody, impossible!
Gentleman of the mighty CPR what is this mirage? Get me Selkirk, get me Van Horne. Tell them I see the sea to the east, and no, it’s not of wheat. Golden though, as it is.