Читать книгу Dark Soil - Stringer Arthur - Страница 13

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Under each moccasined heel

The snow is crisp as charcoal;

There is no moon,

But the night is crystal-clear,

And above the blue-white drifts

The maples stand black;

The orange lamps in the valley

Blink up from another world.

On their corded wisp of wood,

In moccasin, jersey and toque,

The tobogganers arrange themselves.

A motley chorus of color,

They sit expectant,

They move,

Leaning forward a little

As their barque goes over the brink,

Gathering speed as it takes the dip.

In a smother of snow,

In a screaming glitter of ice,

It sinks to that lower world

Where the orange lamps are waiting,

A fall that is softened to flight,

A flight that dies down to a flow,

An arrow that sings through the gloom

To its target of Joy,

A plowshare that rips the belly of Fear

Open to laughter!