Susan Pryke Writing and Communiciation Management

As the wind is singing and the trees creak like galleons,

As the seaweed branches toss in the sky

Blue, I slip through the frost-tipped air, waxing the surface of

Snow with my silver feet

Here, with the wind bending the bark, I race the tumbling leaves

Along the white skin of the earth

Its belly stretched

The sizzle of snow, thin as a whisper,

Frozen and rattling across the barren land

Now, as the day is crystal, the air as cold as a drink

I lick across the snow, my feet whistling in their boots

Laces iced with the frosty tears

Of blue jays, high on the thrones of the wind

Here, in the skittering snow, the underside of the seasons,

I lean forward, loving this sterile land

That creaks and groans, awaiting birth

It sends shoots from the white skin of winter,

To wave in the wheat-high trees

Now, I ride the swell of the land, like a

Thin weed, tossed on the foaming sea

This is the stop and start, the standing-still

Of life,

I gaze at the crumpled bark

On a slim maple bow

Follow the scuttling of dry ash

Leaves, over snow