Poem By Philippa Lane

There's magic in the mountain-tops,
there, where the sky begs
to be eaten in turquoise
gulps of joy -
There, where spirits are pumped
with ether air, danger
lurking everywhere,
my heart aghast with fear.
There, where the white-spaced
glory beneath beckons my angled pride
to thrust myself over the brink
of all reason,
courting suicide.
Seduced by the stimulant of speed,
gravity tugging at my sleeve,
I glide down
the slopes of virgin snow,
basting trails
between the spruce and pine -
a bird's tail of white dust on every turn -
Then breathless at the foot,
look up and ask myself
What is the ratio of thrill to time?

Philippa Lane

(Senneville, Quebec, Canada)
(March 11,2011)
(This poem is dedicated to my daughter, Venetia) 63555

Comments about Skiing

Your eyes paint such grand imagery! Well done once again! Patricia Gale
i like this poem- has some powerful imagery about mountains and the feeling one gets on them

Rating Card

4,5 out of 5
1 total ratings

Other poems of LANE


Purple is afraid
it scuttles into corners
on all fours
it reeks


Yellow is the sun of childhood
the certain day
the fine silk strands
of youthful years

Autumn Leaves

we rake them into pyramid pyres,
our satisfaction glowing like the flame
with which we light them.


Blue floats and hovers
it never comes to rest
its scent is distant bonfires
its touch moth-breath


I was dead wood in a forest
flowing with sap

I Weep For You...


I weep for you, though no tears fall,
I watch you,