Written after a family holiday a few years ago, this poem is about an enchanting and scenic walking route around the winter sports resort of La Clusaz, Manigod. ‘Pine cones glisten on trees, at their roots, birds hop …’
Winter Walk In The French Alps
Trekking poles ready, snow boots on
feet crunch on tracks around the mountainside
past icy lake, down snowy slopes
cheeks sting, bodies glow.
Snowflakes paint patterns in the air
radiant white jewels twinkle,
pine cones glisten on trees.
At their roots, birds hop
a mouse’s footprints embroider, as it seeks shelter,
pause.
Admire,
listen,
energy surrounds, but there isn’t a sound,
just a strange stillness laced with the scent of pure air
then swish
a skier and snowboarder off piste
laughter and words, echo and fade
into the distance, they disappear.
In a clearing, a rundown mountain lodge retires
faded over time, its charm remains.
Behind a veil of icicles,
Aim, throw, a snowball fight begins
snow flurries everywhere,
over pristine drifts.
A canvas for snow-angels
chilly back; arms, and legs slide over it
wings and robe – a seraph shape.
Time to stomp on
to the mountain pass of Croix Fry
beside us, cars wend down a glacial-like road
slithering, steadfast
by chairlift, gift shop, hotel.
Hands cup mugs of hot chocolate
steaming, sweet and rich.
Fortified and revitalized
back to our alpine chalet
through the woods
the magic replays.