In those days you could hire a “cat”
and like a yellow tank it plunged
up and down the slopes and out
into the Main Range. We rocked around
inside, sliding down the narrow seats,
facing each other in our snow disguise.
Laughing, nervous, we clambered out
at the stopping place and sank
into fresh snow, struggling
to put on skis. Oh that day! Mountains
and meadows gleaming in the sun,
shadows as blue as the sky.
We had the ranges to ourselves
and the long run down Mount Townsend
lay before us. One by one we pushed off
and the swish of our skis was the only sound
as our trails turned the slopes
into a great expansive drawing.
Next morning I woke at dawn.
from a dream of an endless schuss
down Himalayan mountains.
Sometimes I was airborne,
flew lightly over crag and valley,
landed in a cloud of powder …
The lodge was buried in sleep.
Fresh snow had fallen in the night.
From my bunk the window framed
a piece of rosy sky, snowy ground
flushed pink, and gliding from the gums,
a red fox seeking food.