Ice-chips plucked whole from the smoke, <br /> <br />the past week’s stars all frozen in flight, <br /> <br />Head over heels the skater’s club goes, <br /> <br />clinking its rink with the peal of night. <br /> <br /> <br />Step slow, slower, slow-er, skater, <br /> <br />pride carving its trace as you race by. <br /> <br />each turn’s a constellation cut there, <br /> <br />scratched by a skate in Norway’s sky. <br /> <br /> <br />The air is fettered in frozen iron. <br /> <br />Oh, skaters! There – it’s all the same, <br /> <br />that, like snake’s eyes set in ivory, <br /> <br />night’s on earth, a domino game: <br /> <br /> <br />that moon, a numb hound’s tongue <br /> <br />is there, frozen tight: that mouths like <br /> <br />the forgers of coins’ – are stung, <br /> <br />filled with lava of breathtaking ice.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-sky-3/
