The rink, like a disc of frosting
In a baker's display,
Was encrusted with children -
Three hundred hats on three hundred heads,
Gloves grasping edges,
Feet skidding, bruises blooming,
Slowly they circled...
All but one boy, who stepped onto the ice
like a swan coming home,
glided to the centre,
spread his arms
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.