Their skis hitched firmly on their backs
The two trudge up the silver hill
Their prints across the powder stamped
The ragged peaks loom stark and still

But undeterred they soldier on
Their visors clamped and glinting bright
With thick white gloves they grasp their sticks
The sky so cold, as black as night

With caterpillar-baggy pants
And bobbing rucksacks white and square
They reach the top and don their skis
Alert, on edge, a lonely pair

It's one small step, and down they plunge
Then slaloming with all their force
They throw up frosty trails of dust
So giddy in their bouncy course

A crater here, a hollow there
And weaving through the boulders strewn
They gasp for extra oxygen
The first to ski upon the Ｍoon!


© Oliver Wright

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