Poem 271

Thinking about the different time-scale of Antarctica, the bodies of various expeditions flowing in a slow river to the sea, a massive clock ticking but infinitesimal movement every day, it all depends on your perspective … and the way human presence is so tiny on and in a miles-deep continent-sized ice sheet that it only amounts to the occasional irritating grain of sand in the oyster … what takes forever for us is well and truly over by lunchtime to a glacier …

( I like the furious sped up action and pace of the first half, right from the opening line with what normally moves glacially rushing followed by much gnashing scratching yelping snouting and flailing before things slow down to more normal speed … )

Impurity

The glacier rushes up close
gnashing rubble teeth
it scratches itself with long yelpings
of stone in the crevices
like a puffy grub it snouts down the valley
a leathery skin of splinters
and inside all water

but the cold tongue flailing out
on the ramp to the sea
holds more 
                     a dark knob
slowly materialising like a bruise
growing out of a thumbnail
single splinter working
its way towards the surface
until the glacier hoists itself
against the surf
and spits
                 out

the prickly aggravation of sledge
and the frozen pearl-wrapped man