A Secret Forest
We landed at Marco Polo,
Azzurri gateway to the North,
clutching passports we passed
bleary-eyed through mundane border checks,
as luggage rolled round.
Peaked cap, whispering cigarette smoke,
hurled cases into the hold,
ushered lines of chattering teens,
one step, two steps,
shuffled along and into seats.
Rolling hills and winding roads,
we watched as morning sun,
mapped its arc across a European sky,
grey urban sprawl and glass,
giving way to Alpine rises.
Birds sang on crowded tree bows,
our cerulean greeting,
wind-swept slopes beckoned.
Raucous, hasty disembarking,
fevered excitement soaking the air.
Ski lifts chugging, hauling, heaving,
smiling, fearless racers to the summit,
oily gears grinding, ropes whirring,
slowly inching over alabaster sheets,
legs outstretched, pointing, leading upwards.
It was at the apex looking back,
I spied the secret forest,
silvery snow drifted, falling silently,
amongst stoical fir trees,
no winter creatures stirred.
For moments in time
I was finally lost
and found in a magical place,
where frozen breath was held
and life was translucent.
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