TYROL TRIP
Forty Christians from Southcourt Baptists,
Skiers,good,novice & the inactive;
On the flight from London-Heathrow,
Trusting Italy was full of snow.
Huddled in a coach past Trento,
Disembark in MSV's mountain shadow;
Crammed & cushed into th cable car,
Just in time for sckolade in the the bar.
Up early to claim skis & boots,
Dressed in salapettes & chic ski suits;
Wait in line for the revolving chairlift,
At the top,jumping off pretty swift.
Down & up the beginners' slope,
In a whiteout,with a prayer& hope;
Pasta for lunch,again & again,
But good to miss out of the English rain.
Learning the knack of forling fondue,
Joining the folk-dance,without a clue;
Saying danke to Karl the owner,
Back on the bus to airport,Verona.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Forty Christians from Southcourt Baptists,
Skiers,good,novice & the inactive;
On the flight from London-Heathrow,
Trusting Italy was full of snow.
Huddled in a coach past Trento,
Disembark in MSV's mountain shadow;
Crammed & crushed into the cable car,
Just in time for schocolade in the the bar.
Up early to claim skis & boots,
Dressed in salapettes & chic ski suits;
Wait in line for the revolving chairlift,
At the top,jumping off pretty swift.
Down & up the beginners' slope,
In a whiteout,with a prayer& hope;
Pasta for lunch,again & again,
But good to miss out of the English rain.
Learning the knack of forking fondue,
Joining the folk-dance,without a clue;
Saying danke to Karl the owner,
Back on the bus to airport,Verona.
The air so cold it feels inert,
briskness that makes the mind alert,
a bluebird sky, a crystal day,
the sun chases some chill away.
New snow half-way up to my knees,
wells and hollows around the trees,
stunted forest, tiny but old,
gnarled by winds and endless cold,
the rhyme ice makes a heavy load,
spruce grouse is flitting too and fro,
bed rock sheened in veneers of ice,
ledges peak out to offer sight
to peaks where so few men have trod,
you stare out like an ancient god.
I see why some folks hike for this,
lucky, this peak has a chairlift.
TYROL TRIP
Forty Christians from Southcourt Baptists
skiers good,novice & the inactive
on a flight from London-Heathrow
trusting Italy was full of snow
Huddled in a coach past Trento
disembark in MSV's mountain shadow
crammed & cushed into the cable car
just in time for hot scholate in the the bar
Up early to claim skis & boots
dressed in salapettes & chic ski suits
wait in line for the mountain chairlift
at the top jumping off pretty swift
Down & up the beginners' slope
in a whiteout with a prayer& hope
Pasta for lunch again & again
but good to miss out of the English rain
Learning the knack of evening fondue
joining the folk-dance without a clue
saying danke to Karl the owner
back on the bus to airport Verona
Year Posted 2007
It’s eight degrees in January,
a frozen New England night.
Standing by a base lodge,
staring up at shadowy slopes,
gray against the icy black.
Others cluster around me,
bundled and waiting.
High above: a point of light,
red and brilliant up there.
Then another, a whole string
snakes down the slope,
turns the gray to fire
as they arc down, lower and lower,
folks start cheering.
The fire-serpent draws near,
pulls up at the silent chairlift.
Acrid smell of road-flares,
don’t know how the torch-skiers
can tolerate that much stink.
They raise the torches in a circle,
Viking-style, glorious.
Fireworks streak overhead,
each burst lights up the trails
for the briefest of flickers.
My nephews run up the hill, excited,
scrambling with the other kids.
It’s fourth of July in January,
and another three nights
before winter’s end.
Forty Christians from Southcourt Baptists,
Skiers,good,novice & the inactive;
On the flight from London-Heathrow,
Trusting Italy was full of snow.
Huddled in a coach past Trento,
Disembark in MSV's mountain shadow;
Crammed & cushed into th cable car,
Just in time for sckolade in the the bar.
Up early to claim skis & boots,
Dressed in salapettes & chic ski suits;
Wait in line for the revolving chairlift,
At the top,jumping off pretty swift.
Down & up the beginners' slope,
In a whiteout,with a prayer& hope;
Pasta for lunch,again & again,
But good to miss out of the English rain.
Learning the knack of forling fondue,
Joining the folk-dance,without a clue;
Saying danke to Karl the owner,
Back on the bus to airport,Verona.
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