An der Ecke

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


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


and the rainbow surfer

rides the glisten

of a tear

wrought of the anvil

of memory’s

golden coin

to tinkle waterfall


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


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


and the bubble-gum


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


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


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


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




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


to curl the tails

of a question

stark in the air

of a little longer

‘fore to turn

and be done


to weight the circle


‘til Oeschinensee

leaves again

a calling card

that makes the key

to take

And calls

And calls

And calls

…….. and calls

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