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‘We finally did it! This victory was important.’ (Pravda 30.5.08)

I

The reflection in the mountain lake glitters,
though less substantial than its more solid sister;
the shore. What is the source of all this beauty?

Plate tectonics, the end of an ice-age, melt-water
seeping secretly below beds of stained snow
in shady crevices, the strange appearance

and disappearance of massive granite ridges.
Snow-covered peaks offer no food and no shelter.
Perhaps we shouldn’t even be here.

II

I see in the tarot cards an intimation of disaster;
up-right for you, reversal for me. The tiny needle
of the compass, so sensitive to the inevitable,

tells me how absurd it is: the idea I might protect you.
The cottage is chained to the damp ground; stone,
wood, iron, bolts, bars, shutters, keys and padlocks;

I do not feel safe. Unlike the tiny needle I cannot
hold steady. Did this fear seep in through the torn
window frame? Did I bring it with me or is it waiting?

III

God, I am so sick of waiting!
I can’t wait any longer.
Quick, change the music!

IV

Chopin gathers up all that is sweet and poignant
in a dark forest; the rush of the unseen stream,
moonlight on damp grass, slumber

of meadow flowers, exhalation of fir trees,
the warm flame of tiny candles reaching upwards,
laughter and our own voices to-ing and fro-ing.

My own voice! I can hear it with the Chopin beneath -
buoying it up, sending it out like ripples across a lake,
beyond the circle of light around us, out into the night.

© Frances Bathgate, January 2008