Skiing Poem by Philippa Lane

There's magic in the mountain-tops,
there, where the sky begs
to be eaten in turquoise
gulps of joy -
There, where spirits are pumped
with ether air, danger
lurking everywhere,
my heart aghast with fear.
There, where the white-spaced
glory beneath beckons my angled pride
to thrust myself over the brink
of all reason,
courting suicide.
Seduced by the stimulant of speed,
gravity tugging at my sleeve,
I glide down
the slopes of virgin snow,
basting trails
between the spruce and pine -
a bird's tail of white dust on every turn -
Then breathless at the foot,
look up and ask myself
What is the ratio of thrill to time?




Philippa Lane


(Senneville, Quebec, Canada)
(March 11,2011)
88281
(This poem is dedicated to my daughter, Venetia) 63555