Far from the man-made trappings of the sport,

Mountain-high, where few have ever gone,

A vast expanse of snow slopes from the North—

Untouched, scarce known, a tempting, perfect run.

Down from the peaks a bitter, winter wind

Is at his back. The sibilance of snow

Beneath his skis whispers a strong, soft sound.

Pines flank a distant path which gleams below.

No thoughts intrude but a secure delight

In skill and balance, even in the mere

Smoothness of descent, so near to flight

Through the bold air, and far too fast for fear.

Behind him mountains, silence, light and, proud

Above them, untamed, snow-filled winter clouds.

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Ann says:  Notice that deliberate pauses are written into this poem (the end of line 7, for instance), which may suggest changes in the skier’s direction.

Poem copyright 2011 by Craig Lawson

Stock image from Google Image

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