When I moved here, it took me two years to realise
that when I told people I’d started skiing when I was four
their smiles meant “and you probably had a pony, too”.
In Zakopane, by grandma’s house, I would point my orange
skis downhill, sit on my heels, lie back and watch
the sky and clouds scroll in parallax
as I waited for the moguls to knock me over.