Looking in the corners for what wasn’t there I found a treasure.
A long, long time ago I walked from a small hiker’s cabin past Blüemlisalp and the Morgenhorn to Oeschinensee. I fell in love with Oeschinensee and visited it a number of times after that. On one particular day when the snow clouds lay low and pregnant I walked up the path, doing the cold weather version of mad dogs and Englishmen. As the snow fell heavy on me and built a nest in my eyebrows I experienced a silence that, if it is not of God Himself, well it, it is the next best thing…….
—
as the twist in the mist
corners the edge of a Venturi time
calling a place
—
no name
—
my water boatman steps
on the very meniscus of time
with
the fickle
dragonfly of hope
—
to pinch the gathering waist
of the damsel mam’selle fly
—
and the trickle of time
runs diamonds through
the finger tip rocks
of ages gone
—
and the stardust comet writes
tender letters
on the canvas of
impression
—
and the rainbow surfer
rides the glisten
of a tear
—
wrought of the anvil
of memory’s
golden coin
—
to tinkle waterfall
ringlets
on her collar
—
and the will written
in the dying of a son
turns its pages
once again
—
as behoves
the hooves on the new born
deer
—
that skate so fragile
on the thin ice
of life
—
and in the falling
the blood red cells
do mark the snow
—
to cut the quaver
crisp and pristine
—
with the stern stars that do
look disapproving from
above
—
and the bubble-gum
whys
of the Montagues and the Capulets
are now still
—
and the
there, there, there
does soothe the tooth
from the gum
—
to post a toast
in an envelope of cheer
with a red waxen seal
—
that claps the hands of it
for a silver-fish
surprise
—
that might bring a tingle to eyes
lest a tear
be born
—
the fawn of another dawn
makes strong its scent
lest be hurt again
—
as the silent snowflake counter
caresses each number
to mark
and the silence cries
…….hark
—
to hear the beating of
a pounding heart
that drums the mountain blood
now fierce in the ears
—
now calm
—
as the clamorous folly of hope
falls silent
lest offend the snow
—
and raises a finger
to his lips
lest a secret spend
—
so the snowball dream
pauses
and the silken scarf
pulls tight ‘gainst the wind
—
and the boatyard ribs
whistle a merry tune
that the beachside groynes
do beg with the sand
should run away
—
from Babushka’s world
and seep deep
into Steppes
—
and hear
feint
faint
nothing
dance its crystal pendant
in the pageant
of the dream
—
and now sotto voce
to wonder
at why he still cares
and would wander on the wings
of a mellow cello
string
—
to curl the tails
of a question
stark in the air
of a little longer
‘fore to turn
and be done
—
and
to weight the circle
round
‘til Oeschinensee
leaves again
a calling card
that makes the key
to take
—
And calls
And calls
And calls
…….. and calls
Traou an Dour 