and set out to use them in your poem.
like thick flakes of unmelting snow….
The children were rapturous
skiing Mt Buller that time,
little red coats and rosy faces,
on the almost-flat beginners’ slopes.
In a full car with chains on
heading to Falls Creek in the dark
we lost a tyre on a bendy road,
changed it by torchlight.
Next day we rode the ski-lift
all the way to the top.
I never smelt air so clean.
Almost at once I fell,
legs in a tangle and couldn’t get up
without a stranger’s detailed instruction.
The gluhwein took hours to cook.
Hot, syrupy, spicy, I found it delectable.