Poem B

Chin-hugging, short-trimmed beard

Listens attentively

To two women

And turns behind

The Italian ladies

Sunglasses as weapons

Hide their eyes

Emotions concealed

Behind darkened visors

What are they thinking?

The boat turns at Lenno

Skims sun-dappled water

Whines with speed

As hydrofoil skis

Mock resistant water

We glide past a small town

Huddling the hillside

Tumbling to the water’s edge

Past beach huts

Pink – or salmon?

Parading for browning bathers

And green hills

On the train to Switzerland

Rolling and falling to the earth

Above which I tower

Lord of all I survey

Below the towns are specks

Mere houses clustered for warmth

Against encircling nature

Children’s voices from behind me

Red baseball caps balanced on growing bones

And their games, handclaps

How long ago it seems

Was I really so young?

A black dog lies down

Scratches languidly

Looks with idle curiosity

As the school group leaves

His eyes tell no story

Hold no mysteries

It is peaceful here now

Only flotsam and jetsam of chatter

Tickles the silence

This is how Switzerland is – and always will be –

The lethal calm always seducing

Purple t-shirt

Clothing a short beard and combed back hair

He has an opera look

A tenor face

He holds his lady

Who returns his attention

With promise eyes

As the mountain train snails down the track

Slithers to civilization

Passengers stare

And think of tea

Time is slipping and saving

Through my bones

Blue shirt

Silvery-grey hair and turned-down mouth

What has he seen

Or felt

That I have not done?

Has he loved as I have loved?

Has time filed its copy on his eyes?

The children sing