into the ice,
and it’s eight-feet-thick along the planks,
you’ll wait for high winds to bring open water.
And if the air never trembles and the years settle in, you’ve no excuse for bitterness.
There’s beauty in that polar cell, the cut glass stars and high wave ridges of old pressure battles.
And your own living dreams in the Arctic night, the glittering colours you carried with you into that whiteness.