1916. Rossetti and Taberlet.
Those are the first two names we read on the memorial,
The captured soldier breaking for freedom, stood silently upon the
delicately quiet letters that form lost names. There for decades,
in sleepy Morzine.
The thick winter coat picked up for a bargain two countries ago
Is pulled up over your golden hair, keeping your ears warm,
away from and out of the biting chill.
It’s about minus three degrees today.
Stepping out of the chalet we didn’t feel it, layered up
And splashing through the fresh dump of snow.
It’s been years, you tell me since you have thrown a snowball.
I know where the first one is going….
You pulled the same grin when cracking
Chocolate Easter eggs on my hollow head.
Looking down the aperture, I can’t tell where mountain meets the river,
or where the town reaches the fields out to the forest.
A photograph, the old stone bridge and portrait shots of you under the silhouette of the town Church, the Alps pose for the picture over your shoulder.
Everywhere is a blanket of whites and browns and low misty clouds.
Where your fingers meet mine in a tangle of wool is unknown,
a delightful fusion keeping you skin safe from the cold off the hard mountain side.
Chocolate on a stick, hot milk in glasses wet from condensation.
Shops full of stuff, walking there in the snow in furry boots and winter coats.
Perfect? yes, it was.