The puck skates in on parted-snow ice.
It's the season’s last game, an encore
to stomach winter’s sliver, to shrug off
the townsfolk stares.
The moonlit night is advanced in years
and highlights frontline winds. Streaming
sky trails squall skeleton trees.
Blades carve the pond.
Their cursive glide freer than
the north-rushing blood pumping
through them. Their thoughts
stick check to the gathering
freckled crowds. If anyone has
anything to prove, it’s them.
If they could slapshot past
history’s chain-link fog
and derelict promises,
to where falling white curtains
the world, they would.
Michael Fraser, “Coloured Hockey League of the Maritimes” from To greet yourself arriving. Copyright © 2016 by Michael Fraser. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Source: To greet yourself arriving (Tightrope Books, 2016)