Bonfire: for Fritz Ogi

I’ve seen you in every bonfire since

that bonfire

which you missed.

It flickered in the valley

in a thousand sets of village eyes

while your eyes,

brown as roast chestnuts,

lost their last focus

on the red and white striped climbing rope

which lay beside you,

a discarded umbilical cord

amongst the rocky debris

and flattened alpine gentians.

The cliff stood gashed and stilled behind you

in the fading light.

A marmot’s whistle sliced the night,

a last salute to you who loved to spot them,

still as granite sentinels

rising from the alpine grass.

As first of August fireworks raced towards the stars,

shapeshifters, show offs,

the white-iced peak of Blumlisalp

hovered above you like a dove.

Your village waited,

a flaccid flag beside the bonfire ash.

I remember how we made a snake of sleds,

twelve of us, disciples of fun

and winter sun.

We slid and scraped along the frozen street

behind Dan’s old Opel wagon.

Above empty window boxes

heads gazed out, framed in sunburned wood,

eyes disapproving of all

that might not be allowed.

Your cheeks flushed pink

as mountain rhododendron

beneath your bright red zottlekappe,

your zipfelmutze,

(your thin woollen farmer’s beanie with the long tassel)

that whipped the falling snowflakes

as you grinned and swerved your body

right then left,

forcing the snake’s lower vertebrae

to swing wildly,

careering from kerb to kerb.

And old Herman Kunzi,

hip replaced Bergfuhrer

who thumbed his nose at electricity

and summer daylight savings

let out a snow-shaking-off-tweed-shoulders guffaw.

I remember how he looked at you

and winked

then ambled on, still chortling.

On a snow-lined street

“Heisse marroni heisse marroni!” they call

and fill a paper cone with fire-roasted chestnuts.

I hold it to my face

and the heat almost sears my cheeks.