For Tomas Transtromer
It stopped snowing. Th e branches of the fi rs
release the extra load.
In front of you a fresh ski track
that vanishes in the valley.
Nameless terrain: Geilo, Tatras,
Västeras region, Moon?
Not a living soul around.
Your breath keeps you on track.
Cosmic silence. Th e swoosh of the skis,
heart’s thumping in your temples… Th en
behind the clouds, an outline of the blue planet,
the one you know from the maps.
And you realize in horror: Th is track,
which makes you ski ever so easier
was left by the narrow skis
of your earthly life.