Carve me remembrance in a block of ice: wood waiting for the splinter, iron-girdled against the press of ice walls of boxes printed back into spam, peaches, promises of warmth and blossom-scent left so far north. Light through a window ever without cobwebs slow-flowered into silver - silver crystallised to mildew-flowers, framing up all reminders of sails against the snow lost now to penguins and aurora-glow. cold-crisp and lanolin, paper and sacking. Seal-stink a century old, horse-hair matted into grit under the unconcerned waddle of a penguin, remarking on no past exploratory hopes: only welcoming the wind's lee.
October 20th, 2014