A Skiers Lament
Now is the winter of our delight
Made foul summer by these suns of petroleum;
And all the pow that lour’d upon our slopes
To the distant bosom of the Antarctic banished.
Now are our brows burnt and eyes stung with dust;
Our bruised planks and boards hung up for monuments;
Our merry whoops changed to cries of sorrow;
Our sick lines but a distant memory.
Grim heat has wrinkled winters smooth front;
And now, instead of mounting powder skis
To surf deep pillows on softened steeps,
We caper nimbly no longer in our winter wonderland
But despair at the sight of rocks and mud… and weep.