The Skier

It needn’t last, this longing.
Let me take you to this forgetting:

That we ever slid through the forest,
yearning toward the scent of smoke,
and the promise of heat and food
as the last light left the treetops
and the darkness chased us along,
setting the ground beneath us.

We stopped at the next chalet,
bang banged our way across the threshold,
threw more wood on the fire,
shed snow and wet wool,
took turns on the wineskin…

…when you turned me to see the
blind lady on snowshoes,
dancing across the snow in graceful
leaps and bounds,
laughing and moving against the cold.

Days, weeks, a lifetime on skis,
I wish we could spring you from this chair
and go one last time…

…where you are still ahead of me in the dark woods,
your skis just disappearing through the snow,
and soon, any time, the chalet will appear.

Philippa Dowding, 2008