nichepoetryandprose

One winter day in the early 1970’s, I took a walk, alone, down to the shore of one of the chain of lakes extending from Dartmouth to Fall River in Nova Scotia.  Near the edge of the lake, I sat down on a log to watch the snow fall.  As I sat there, I had a memorable experience.  A lone skater, on racing blades, skated into the cove.  He had no idea I was there and skated with the abandon of solitude.  This event remains unique in my experience and will always be one of the loveliest happenings of my life. 

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solitudes

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shortest hour

shortest day

hike to the lake

on the rail line

~

stunted stride

grey rails

grey sky

blue mittens

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2.

the cove is a glimpse

between branches

birch and maple support the sky

expectant with snow

~

I wiggle to warm

a place on a log

to watch

snowflakes like mayflies

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bark cracks

twigs snap

mittens, knees and elbows

tucked

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3.

the cove is an oh!

of unspoilt ice, black

smooth, bound

by ice-skinned cobbles

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last summer I turned one

found a salamander, red as berries, crushed

beneath the weight of air

skin panting in dapples of sun

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today all colour is trapped

in the droop of high bush cranberries

fat sickles of ice

and the electric blue of mittens

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the snow sifts down

I lift my mitt to catch a flake 

clings to the wool, white jigsaw

puzzles with atmospheres between

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dark ice dwindles

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4.

a cymbal rings on heavy air

not the crack of hardened bark

but the ring of steel, the scratch 

ice shaved by a metal edge

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a lone man skates

round the curve of the shore

long-limbed as a spider he strides

on racing blades

stretches his arms

~

turns one toe and leans, a compass

marks a circle on the empty page

three quick strides and a figure

he touches a hand to ice

to steady the turn

~

alone, he dances

and I am nothing

a stump, bent vibernum

berries under snow

~

neither breath nor mittened hands

only eyes, watching

and in a while

closed 

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5.

fines of snow

ease the heavy sky

the trees lean

the skater gone, the cove unwritten

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white on the lake, the shore

the tree bark

the berries

even the mittens, white

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© Jane Tims 2000