|
KEVIN BONNETT
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.
-
|