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Poetry by Peter D. Orr
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Chamonix Oh, bright silver-white colossus whose robes brush up against the nearby stream, in a valley made gold by the morning sun. How often do I reflect upon you and ponder your Olympian majesties! So glorious was the sight to a young boy upon waking in Chamonix: like a thunderbolt from heaven which striking steel, grounded my fixation; as if electrified by the vision: So grand and powerful, So cold and forboding. Yet decreeing a warm emotion Upon the villages below, where chalets were to be seen here and there as if carried down with the snow. And along icy crags and twisty roads glaciers of an age gone by form mounting aqua waves never to recede with the tide. |