There's magic in the mountain-tops, <br />there, where the sky begs <br />to be eaten in turquoise <br />gulps of joy - <br />There, where spirits are pumped <br />with ether air, danger <br />lurking everywhere, <br />my heart aghast with fear. <br />There, where the white-spaced <br />glory beneath beckons my angled pride <br />to thrust myself over the brink <br />of all reason, <br />courting suicide. <br />Seduced by the stimulant of speed, <br />gravity tugging at my sleeve, <br />I glide down <br />the slopes of virgin snow, <br />basting trails <br />between the spruce and pine - <br />a bird's tail of white dust on every turn - <br />Then breathless at the foot, <br />look up and ask myself <br />What is the ratio of thrill to time? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Philippa Lane <br /> <br /> <br />(Senneville, Quebec, Canada) <br />(March 11,2011) <br />88281 <br />(This poem is dedicated to my daughter, Venetia) 63555<br /><br />Philippa Lane<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/skiing-2/
