This poem about ice huts was submitted by Orillia writer Colin McKim:
ICE HUTS
In the centre
Of the man cave
Where a fire
Would be at home,
A wet hole gapes --
An open door
To another world
Alive below the ice.
Inward-looking
Observatories
The ice huts delve
Through watery lenses
Into a shadowy realm
Where white fish flash
Like comets through Aquarius.
In the gypsy encampment
Out on the frozen lake
Angling lovers
Are shacking up.
The house husband
And the hunter-gatherer
Meet for drinks.
Hungry prospectors,
The ice fishermen
Work their augured claims,
Hoping to hook into
A vein of silver so rich
The feasting will never end.
Outside the wind whips by
Howling as it scours
A thousand miles of snow.
But in the huts the lines,
As thin as whispers, dip
Into a dreamy calm
Just half a foot away.
There in the centre
Where a fire
Would be at home,
A wet hole gapes –
An eye, an open mouth,
Where every stolen kiss
Is good enough to eat.
