A flicker floats upon a crystal sea.
The chilly clear white-caps
Damask a dance of cold intricity-
Beneath the wind that flaps,
That snaps, that traps winter’s bite inside its blow,
Above the endless
Blue infinite hole that falls away below
Where pristine perils rest.
Suspended, surreal, the perils lie in form
Of deep monstrous mountains,
Of snowy sapphire slopes far beneath the storm.
Razor feather fountains
Sculpt serene statues of sharp waiting death
That wait amongst the waters
In the icy grasp of the currents’ breath
And remote depths unstirred.
Untouched and unmoving small forms of ice
Images of Arctic
Terror, replicated once or thrice
As trite cubes that do click,
And clash a quaint chorus within my glass.
Music small and quiet,
Reminiscent of the death of ships vast
That mars the day and yet.
Yet still the foolish will feast and feign
A waltz of apathy.
They raise a toast-from which my glass abstains-
As wine slips in the sea.
On quarter-deck the quintet quells a note
And low the ship soon sets,
While the lights leak in the watery load;
Still in the fray none fret.