An der Ecke

Looking in the corners for what wasn’t there I found a treasure.


A long, long time ago I walked from a small hiker’s cabin past Blüemlisalp and the Morgenhorn to Oeschinensee. I fell in love with Oeschinensee and visited it a number of times after that. On one particular day when the snow clouds lay low and pregnant I walked up the path, doing the cold weather version of mad dogs and Englishmen. As the snow fell heavy on me and built a nest in my eyebrows I experienced a silence that, if it is not of God Himself, well it, it is the next best thing…….


as the twist in the mist

corners the edge of a Venturi time

calling a place


no name


my water boatman steps

on the very meniscus of time



the fickle

dragonfly of hope


to pinch the gathering waist

of the damsel mam’selle fly


and the trickle of time

runs diamonds through

the finger tip rocks

of ages gone


and the stardust comet writes

tender letters

on the canvas of



and the rainbow surfer

rides the glisten

of a tear


wrought of the anvil

of memory’s

golden coin


to tinkle waterfall


on her collar


and the will written

in the dying of a son

turns its pages

once again


as behoves

the hooves on the new born



that skate so fragile

on the thin ice

of life


and in the falling

the blood red cells

do mark the snow


to cut the quaver

crisp and pristine


with the stern stars that do

look disapproving from



and the bubble-gum


of the Montagues and the Capulets


are now still


and the


there, there, there

does soothe the tooth

from the gum


to post a toast

in an envelope of cheer

with a  red waxen seal


that claps the hands of it

for a silver-fish



that might bring a tingle to eyes

lest a tear

be born


the fawn of another dawn

makes strong its scent

lest be hurt again


as the silent snowflake counter

caresses each number

to mark


and the silence cries



to hear the beating of

a pounding heart


that drums the mountain blood

now fierce in the ears


now calm


as the clamorous folly of hope

falls silent

lest offend the snow


and raises a finger

to his lips

lest a secret spend


so the snowball dream



and the silken scarf

pulls tight ‘gainst the wind


and the boatyard ribs

whistle a merry tune


that the beachside groynes

do beg with the sand


should run away


 from Babushka’s world

and seep deep

into Steppes


and hear





dance its crystal pendant

in the pageant

of the dream


and now sotto voce

to wonder


at why he still cares


and would wander on the wings

of a mellow cello



to curl the tails

of a question

stark in the air


of a little longer


‘fore to turn

and be done




to weight the circle



‘til Oeschinensee

leaves again

a calling card


that makes the key

to take


And calls


And calls


And calls


…….. and calls