The ski lift took him right to the top.
He knew skiing, now he would never stop.
The air was crisp and so very pure,
The icing sugar snow, soft and sure,
His skis urged him, to off piste go,
And to lift his eyes, to the clear blue sky
And see afar, white peeks on high,
Which was where, he felt he had to go.
The Boy is still somewhere, in the snow.
Could be Switzerland, France, Austria, we don’t know.
When the sun strikes his orange, braces bright,
A glimpse of him, you may sight.
If you happen to reach that height
Tell him to return, well before, the dark of night.