Quilt the hills in soft and frosted white,
flood the land in deep, unshifting tides,
petrify the lakes to shining ivory
and deck the silent trees as lace-veiled brides.
Still the wind and brush the heavens cloudless,
buff the running streams to liquid chrome,
chill the air to breathless, raw and cutting,
and tell me why I feel so much at home.
What forgotten voices am I hearing?
Why this haunted aching and regret?
Who says "come on in, the water's lovely"?
Fifty years and I'm no wiser yet.
Tony Thorpe