ON LAKE LUCERNE
I re-awaken to a land necklaced with cloud,
my eyes’ cones mirroring the peaks.
Here again, presenced by Miocene time
my exposed fibres open, senses to senseless,
old words lost in the cavity’s chasms.
I’m no dextral shear, not forced by aeons
to ranges and tarns, but what most presses
after the shape of you, denting the mattress,
summits and crevices lucid, still warm –
is the white ring of mountain, the flat depth
of snow, the unanswering no to the unspoken
call, will you be here again, be with me again –
or leave my echo to fade on the steeps
there above, pillowed in fathoms below.
Copyright Chris Hunt 2013