Arctic Glass

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.

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