Chairlifts Poem by David Welch

The drone of the engine humming,
a bull-wheel around which chairs swing,
skiers all rushing to the line,
beginners are never in time.

A rapid lift up a height,
the bar comes bar to calm the fright,
high view of white trails swooping down,
figures below zipping around.

A few of them fall, full yard-sale,
some smirk when they see others fail,
the teens will laugh, as young men do,
forgetting they were novices too.

The tall tower, the rolling sheaves,
gray cable rolling over it,
low squeaking sound as it goes by,
you're moving slow, but still you fly.

The growing view of mountains close,
tall, frosted pines trees break the snow,
there's skiers out there, in the glades,
they thirst for woods with powder paved.

A snowgun blasting, hide your face,
pins-and-needles pain as it sprays,
short annoyance, with which we deal,
nature's stingy with snow that's real.

The summit station looms ahead,
up goes the bar we are led
to a ramp that slides us down quick,
some first-timers don't know this trick.

The attendants will help them up,
at first the sport is rather tough,
but once you've learned the chairlift seems
a machine that paints winter dreams.

And then comes the fun part…