A skater comes to this blue pond,
his worn Canadian skates
held by the straps.
He sits on the grass
lacing stiff boots
into a wreath of effort and breath.
He tugs at the straps and they sound
as ice does when weight troubles it
and cracks bloom around stones
creaking in quiet mid-winter
mid-afternoons: a fine time for a skater.
He knows it and gauges the sun
to see how long it will be safe to skate.
Now he hisses and spins in jumps
while powder ice clings to the air
but by trade he’s a long-haul skater.
Little villages, stick-like in the cold,
offer a child or a farm-worker
going his round. These watch him
go beating onward between iced alders
seawards, and so they picture him
always smoothly facing forward, foodless and waterless,
mounting the crusted waves on his skates.