Ruska *
A short summer,
but warm enough to melt the snow on north-facing slopes.
Mosquitoes whined and brown water oozed
round the roots of water plants in bogs.
The forgetful hills waited.
Meanwhile small yellow flowers bloomed
on their stony sides, grayling made rings
where streams slid under dwarf willow.
In August clouds gathered,
pitting black water with raindrops.
Then wind brought the shock of cold
and greens leached into the air.
For two weeks land and weather contended.
One morning a pale sun rose in a clear sky
and the day was still.
Pools were set in a bezel of ice,
delicate as eggshell, transparent as glass.
The sky was a bell, the hard earth
a sounding board and the air like crystal
where every note rang twice
with its immediate echo.
The sound that surprised you,
which you couldnīt at first place,
was a leaf dropping through branches,
brushing its steadfast neighbours
which had been transformed to reds
and yellows, blues and orange,
each leaf fringed with crystals
that the white sun could not melt.
And for just a few days the coloured hillsides
and valleys will glitter like Aladdinīs cave
as they patiently wait in silence.
* Ruska is the Finnish word for the phenomenon of the leaves changing colour in Lapland.
Mike
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