Safe Passage
Nov 19 2010


The trees were loaded with snow.
Spruce are spindly, this far north,
bending nearly to the ground
in graceful arcs
with their burden of fresh white powder
— like the palace guard
bowing respectfully.
Some trees broke
bare and jagged,
barring the path like scattered spears
abandoned
on the battlefield.

There is a delicate balance of forces,
like deterrence
in a cold war —
the stickiness of snow, the springy wood
the warmth of a frugal sun.
When a sudden gust
can disrupt it all.

Until I walk
along the path
beneath this arbour of gently bending trees,
a triumphant arc
glittering brightly.
And brush against a branch,
springing-up lightly
in a shower of airy snow.
That powders my fleece,
sits, like epaulettes, on my shoulders,
clings to my lashes,
filling the world
with cool translucent light.
Melting quickly,
and, when the mercury plummets
freezing my eyelids shut.
Struck blind, suddenly.

The trees grow towards the path
in a lattice-work tunnel,
competing for open space.
Which will be choked off by forest
swallowed up,
when I no longer come.
Because the trees always win the war,
and safe passage
for a neutral observer like me
is never sure.

The path
as if it never existed.
History, as usual
re-written by the victors.