The ice is a polished ballroom floor,
And my partner, the jet black puck, dances across with ease,
Gliding about in this chaotic war,
Followed by the stick that is under tease.
The faint hum of chatter fills the air,
Swaying figures dart around the vast land,
My blades hacking away at the ice without a care,
My gloves secured tightly to my hand.
The delicate cold whistle of the air lingers,
The bitter taste of sweat trails within my parched throat.
Icy waves prick away at my numb fingers,
With little warmth coming from my coat.
The slight aroma of cooking chips can be found,
My bones ache, scream and tire.
My skates like steel are steadily bound,
To be able to rest is all I desire.
Although the aftermath may be sore,
It’s crisp cold mornings like this that I yearn for.
Year 9, Otago Girls High School