curling

12d

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Edited 12d ago

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12h

He saw the weather written on the pane
as he buckled on his gaiters,
shouldering the hammer to walk the lane
spooked with his breath, to the pond
at the extremity of his acres…

—Lorn Macintyre, “Bonspiel”
published in Snowball in Summer (Argyll, 2009)

https://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poem/bonspiel/

#Scottish #literature #poem #poetry #curling #WinterOlympics #WinterSports #winter #bonspiel

Bonspiel
Lorn Macintyre

He saw the weather written on the pane
as he buckled on his gaiters,
shouldering the hammer to walk the lane
spooked with his breath, to the pond
at the extremity of his acres.
The hammer bounced on the ice
a dozen times before he was certain
that it would bear the weight.
He took the pungent moth-balls
from the pockets of his plus-fours
before sending the serving-man
with a message round the doors:
‘Bonspiel at Murdo’s pond, tomorrow, noon.’

They came on foot, on horseback, by trap,
ladies in breeches, ploughmen with twine
lashing their shins for the only game
in the district. The shelves in the brick shed
were lined with stones like ancient cheeses,
each one owned by a chalked name.
Men down on a knee, as if proposing,
send the stone slithering across the ice,
its way hastened by scrabbling brooms.
Stones clash, and by the pond’s edge
a brazier offers searing chestnuts.

The pond has leached into the earth now,
reverting to a bog. In the bracken
I uncover the brazier’s rusted remains,
like a cauldron from an abandoned coven.
The door of the shed hangs off its hinges.
I lift down a stone from the dusty shelves,
the granite cracked from the collision
in the forgotten bonspiel. As I send it
spinning across the floor I hear
the roar, and through the broken window
see a beauty brushing up her game.

ALT

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