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Currajah (news & notes)

Famous Reporter # 34




Lake Louise

Only now is the snow slowing at Lake Louise
it is late in the day, and grey inside white,
with our fresh footprints from road to rock,
for we have run to where was once a lake,
where now is ice and the place where rocks roll to meet.
The falling snow tastes at our arms and legs,
as we dance and twist out
our stolen thoughts, touched and stowed, under the loaded pines,
branch upon branch, flake upon flake, all filed away,
and rounded round by the breeze.
For this snow will have to wait
for some bolder sun to translate
for clouds have done their job too well,
too far from a slight sky drawn to land
complete and mirror from sea to gloved hand,
all of our most private white thoughts,
reserved for the moment,
for when that trickle comes,
liquid and flow
for the lake under ice, to shift and roll,
for the Summer to raise its yellow eye
over the stone, hands of mountains, cradled,
with gloves of green, needled, to water.
Spring makes to crack
with rupture and floe
as Lake Louise is born anew
bloated fat with our southern secrets
for only now is her liquid free to reveal
and explore the shore with listless lick,
free to touch the wings of birds,
or to sluice in and out,
the silver gills of fish,
rippled down this true azure sky
inside and above
the sight lake eye,
of Lake Louise.
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